


Thieves Among Us

by midwestwind



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Espionage, F/M, Romance, Team Dynamics, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:10:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7685806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midwestwind/pseuds/midwestwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about thieves is that they all have a tell. Some oversell, others avoid eye contact. Most work alone, off to the side of public places where they can do their surveying in private. Emma isn’t just a thief, though, Emma is the Best Thief (trademark pending).</p><p>And she does not work with partners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Let me tell you the story of this fic real quick; I started watching Leverage. That's the basis of this idea, really, it all stemmed from Leverage. (Though, I do hope it takes a tone of it's own.) I thought "I wanna write a short thieves oneshot for AU week!!" Boy, oh boy, did that not work out. Not only have I been working on this for almost two months, but it's almost as big as Openheart (my only other multichap project) word count-wise. Needless to say, I felt I owed it to the material, myself, and you lovely readers to break it down into multiple parts rather than a 30k oneshot.
> 
> That said, if it seems familiar to you, I did post a sneak preview of it for AU week over on my tumblr: http://felicityssmoak.co.vu/post/147697444330/cs-au-week-belated-day-4-thieves-au-the
> 
> Big thank yous to Sandy and Steph who helped a lot with this just by proofreading and cheerleading! I honestly would not be able to write anything - good or otherwise - without their support. I really hope readers enjoy this fic!!
> 
> And to cap off the world's longest author note, I'll end with a general disclaimer for this fic; I know astoundingly little about Greenland, art museums, and security systems. Therefore, much of this fic is definitely fantastical in nature. Think of the show Leverage but with even less research. Also, so, so little about French government. Please suspend your disbelief okay I’m so sorry <33

Emma is casing the private gallery of some New York socialite the first time she sees him.

 

The thing about thieves is that they all have a tell. Some oversell, others avoid eye contact. Most work alone, off to the side of public places where they can do their surveying in private. Emma isn’t just a thief, though, Emma is the Best Thief (trademark pending). Along with this title come a few perks; a warehouse full of some of the world’s most prized art and jewels, the means to keep oneself out of homelessness and poverty, and the ability to spot another thief from a mile away.

 

And there is absolutely no way that Killian Jones, a man with all the subtlety of a hand grenade, is taking her score.

 

She ducks to the side of the room, cramming into a bend in the wall, and watches him for a moment. He certainly looks the part of a thief, dressed head to toe in black with most of it being leather. He keeps one arm tucked against his side, bent at the elbow. The fingers at the end of it are stiff and Emma is unsurprised at the false hand. It’s part of his legacy. Killian Jones can steal, con, and fight better with one hand than most men can with two.

 

At least Emma had the common sense to dress the part of an art connoisseur. This isn’t her first day on the job and she already has the guard schedule figured out. She waits in her spot for the security personnel's rounds to bring them to her. Seeking them out would only make her stand out more.

 

“Oh, excuse me,” she says, once one rounds the corner. Her fingers wrap around his upper arm and she nods her head in Jones’ direction, pulling the man’s gaze from her face before it even lands. “I heard that man over there saying something kind of, well, alarming. I think he might be planning something to do with the Monet.”

 

The guard frowns, looking from Jones to her and back. She merely blinks, concerned frown fully in place. There’s nothing menacing in her daisy patterned skirt and powder pink top. Nothing in her face that screams “ _Wanted for grand theft in 32 states and 40 countries_ ”.

 

Killian Jones, on the other hand, looks like he’s taken his fashion advice from _Thief Wear Weekly_ . There’s probably a Buzzfeed article bookmarked on his computer; _How to Dress Like You're About to Commit a Felony_. He’s well enough known in the criminal world, Emma supposes. Enough that she knows who he is. He’s known better as an errand boy - Retrieval Specialist, whatever the hell that means -, but he’s best known for his exits.

 

Emma’s tactic is simple; get in, get out. She doesn’t dilly dally, doesn’t like to show her face if she can help it. Occasionally, there’s the hiccup of a security camera she can’t hack or a guard who catches her for a moment. Typically, though, by the time her score is realized as missing, Emma is halfway across town.

 

Jones, on the other hand, lives for the grift. The big scene at the end of the night, when you’ve got what you want, but there’s an escape to be made. At this, Jones is all but legendary. The way people talk about him, you’d think he’d simply talked his way into and out of most of his scores. Emma doesn’t need to know him to know she doesn’t like him.

 

The guard watches Jones pluck a flute of champagne off the buffet table and skirt the edge of the room. Emma catches the guard’s eyes narrowing as Jones steps a little _too_ closely to a particular painting, eyes surveying in a calculating way, and she knows she’s won.

 

“We’ll handle it, ma’am, thank you.”

 

Emma doesn’t even get to titter out a response before the guard is stalking off, muttering into the radio at his shoulder. She watches with satisfaction as he marches up to Jones, who is immediately on alert, and navigates through the man’s usually disarming charm.

 

“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave,” the guard says, once he clearly hasn’t gotten the proper responses out of Jones. The thief’s eyes grow big, arms swinging out to his sides in a grand gesture, and Emma knows he’s about to make a scene. The guard is having none of it, though, another one showing up to help him escort the rowdy man from the premises.

 

As he being dragged away, Jones notices Emma. She steps out from her concealment and even offers him a smug wave. His eyes darken, but the corners of his lips tick up in a smirk. Emma can hear the threat as clearly as if he’d shouted it at her.

 

_This isn’t over_.

 

She swipes the Monet on the night of the exhibit’s grand opening a few days later. Jones is nowhere to be seen.

 

-/-

 

Emma’s been a thief practically her whole life. Pilfered candy bars as a child, boosted cars as a teen. There was a time when it was due to a necessity. If she didn’t steal something she could sell or consume, she didn’t eat. Homelessness and poverty were defining characteristics of her youth. It wasn’t taking more than you needed when you had nothing and needed everything.

 

Now, she’s lost that moral compass. A warehouse, rented under an alias, holds her favorites of her stolen artifacts, but much of it gets sold. Emma has enough money to keep herself comfortable, even some run off she donates anonymously to orphanages. It’d be easy to sell off most of her stolen possessions to the highest bidders, escape somewhere without an extradition treaty, and live the lavish life she’d only dreamed of as a child.

 

And dream it, she had. Laying awake in a lumpy bed in a room shared with four other children, or shivering in an alley and trying to lull her mind to sleep, Emma had indulged in the fantasy. She’d imagined parents who loved her, coming out of nowhere to sweep her away. She dreamed of being a lost princess belonging to a palace in some unheard of country.

 

Those dreams are dead now, a reminder of how naive she’d been. No, Emma doesn’t steal because she has to, because it can mean the difference between a night in a warm hotel room and sleeping out on the street. Now, she does it because it’s _fun_.

 

There’s a rebellion to it, in the rush of absconding with something nearly priceless and renowned. Something like rubbing it in the face of a system that never gave a damn about her anyway.

 

It’s a little childish, sure, but it’s not like she got the luxury of a childhood when she was young.

 

It’s been about a month and a half since the Monet went missing. There’s an auction uptown, tons of expensive jewels up for bidding, and it’s absolutely begging for her attention. Most likely, the bidders will be private collectors hoping to find something worthy of their millions. These types of events are pretty easy to intervene in the stages between the bidding and the actual shipping of the items. Emma’s sure to score something astounding.

 

Her dress screams rich housewife, with just enough dip at her chest to make anyone who looks a little too closely underestimate her. She’s halfway out of her apartment when something makes her halt, a sixth sense maybe. A car door closes just under her window and Emma rushes to peer out over the fire escape. A man leans against the black sedan, cell phone pressed to his ear as he looks straight up at her apartment.

 

Emma ducks out of view and frowns to herself. It’s possible that whoever it is isn’t actually here for her. It’s a question of whether or not she’s willing to take the chance.

 

“Nope,” Emma sighs, answering the question aloud to herself. She grabs a duffle stuffed under the couch and heads out of the apartment. The roof access door is kept locked, mostly because they have some kids in the building, but also because her landlord is a grumpy old asshole. Emma picks the lock with ease, the tumblers clicking into place and allowing her to swing the door open.

 

It’s hardly a picturesque rooftop anyway, no gardens or murals. Just some gravel and bird shit. Blessedly, though, the fire escape goes all the way to the roof on the old brownstone. It drops off in the alley and Emma can easily catch a cab from the next block. She swings the duffle onto her shoulder and begins her descent, wishing she’d had the forethought to switch out of her heels at least.

 

She hits the pavement with a grin and heads in the opposite direction of the front of her apartment. A man steps into view at the mouth of the alley, nearly identical to the man leaning against the car. The grin falls.

 

“Emma Swan,” he calls out, not a question, and Emma pivots to run the other way. Except Goon #1 is blocking her path that way now.

 

“Shit,” she hisses, turning back to look between the two men. Identical black suits, not terribly pricey ones, though. A thin cord curling down from one of each of their ears. Adjusting her bag, she calls out, “Private security?”

 

“We need you to come with us, Ms. Swan,” one of them, Emma isn’t even sure which, calls out as they both advance on her. Her only escape is back up to the roof and, even then, where does she go from there? No, Emma has a very good fight or flight response, it’s how she’s survived all these years. And, right now, she knows her only option is compliance.

 

“I actually had somewhere to be,” she says, because she can be compliant without seeming weak. Her jaw is set and her shoulders are stiff, there’s no fear in her gait. She’s very good at tempering it. Not to mention, these guys definitely aren’t law enforcement. So, she’s kind of intrigued.

 

Rather than put up any real fight, Emma lets them lead her back to the black sedan. She keeps one hand on the door handle, but one of the men is sitting in the backseat with her. No chance of an escape before they hit any higher speeds. They actually head in the direction of the auction, though Emma can tell they’ve veered more West.

 

Every attempt at fishing information out of the men comes up short and Emma barely refrains from pouting when they lead her from a parking garage into a shady security office. They seat her in a chair and leave her by herself. Emma hears the telltale click of the lock on the door when they shut it. Now she’s really starting to worry for her safety.

 

They hadn’t confiscated any of her belongings, though, and her lockpicks are still tucked into her dress pocket.

 

“Ah, Emma Swan, I’ve heard much about you.”

 

It’s at least ten minutes before the man enters the room. Emma crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her head at him. He’s suited, much like the security she’s already encountered, but it’s expensive this time. Cufflinks glitter with blood red gems at his wrists. Old money, Emma thinks. The man himself isn’t exactly young, his false smile causing wrinkles around his eyes and the top of his head is still dusted with white hair despite the shave.

 

“All good things, I’m sure,” she offers in response. As much as she’s reading him, she’s sure he’s doing the same to her. He chuckles and it’s anything but pleasant despite his efforts.

 

“Let’s just say your reputation proceeds you, hm?” He flashes perfect white teeth at her and Emma is reminded of a predatory animal.

 

“Well, you’ve got me at a disadvantage here,” she says, shrugging as she leans back in the uncomfortable wooden chair. “Seeing as I don’t know who the hell you are.”

 

That earns her a reaction. It’s barely there, a flash in his bright blue eyes. He expects her to know him, he’s unseated by the fact that she doesn’t. It’s an interesting response to be sure. To his credit, he continues on as if he hasn’t taken offense.

 

“My name is George Spencer.” He must catch a flash of recognition at the name because suddenly his grin changes from false hospitality to smugness. “Ah, you’ve heard of me, good. Then you know I can pay well.”

 

“Well” is an understatement, really. George Spencer is practically modern royalty, the closest a man can come to being a king without physically running a country. Emma doesn’t even know what he could possibly be interested in hiring her for, but the cash signs are racking up in her mind. Still, she’ll keep her skepticism for now.

 

“Pay me for what, exactly?” Emma asks, cutting to the chase. She’s not interested in his games.

 

“I am assembling a team of people with certain, shall we say, _unsavory_ skillsets,” he explains.

 

“Thieves,” Emma says.

 

“ _Criminals_ ,” George corrects, unashamed as he leans forwards towards her, teeth flashing in the flourescent lights. Emma contemplates him, tries to decide if he’s desperate or devious. She isn’t sure which type of man is more dangerous. “The best of the best.”

 

“As I said,” he goes on, “I can pay very well. I can’t divulge the full details of the job until you’ve agreed, of course, but to put it simply; someone has stolen something very important from me. I’d like you to get it back.”

 

“And if I say no?” She asks.

 

“Then you are free to leave,” he shrugs, straightening his shoulders. “I am not keeping you here under duress, you’re free to leave whenever you like.”

 

“And if I say yes?”

 

George’s grin grows and Emma knows that for him the question is just as good as a yes. “Then, you’ll meet your new team.”

 

-/-

 

Emma wants to believe she’s better than this, but the number George gives her is too good to pass up. It could put her in retirement. At least, for as long as it took her to get bored with retirement. Hell, it could feed an entire orphanage for a year. The possibilities are endless and Emma is sure she’d kick herself down the road for refusing.

 

George gives her an address, date, and time. Two days later, she meets her new - _temporary_ , that angry little voice in the back of her head reminds her - team. The address brings her to a cache of warehouses, because they’re really going for all the cliches here apparently, and Emma is momentarily struck upon entering.

 

It’s not just a warehouse. It’s a headquarters. There’s six screens stacked together on a wall, their displays all a bright blue as a woman stands off to the side of them untangling and attaching wires. She’s muttering to herself, Emma catches some profanity and something about “ _morons who couldn’t hook up a VCR_ ”, and she decides to leave the woman to it.

 

It’s as she’s passing that Emma notices the red streaks in her dark hair, the matching polish on her nails, and suddenly realizes who the woman is. Damn, Spencer was not lying about getting the best.

 

“Tell me something,” an accented voice says in her ear. “That Monet you stole, what did you do with it?”

 

Emma doesn’t jump, nor whirl around to face him. Calmly, she turns her head to find herself mere inches from Killian Jones. He’s smirking at her, though his eyes are trained on where the screens have now gone all black, six identical lines of code flashing across them.

 

“I sold it,” she answers simply.

 

“Sold it?” Jones repeats, eyebrows ticking upwards in surprise. “You _sold_ Beach in Pourville?”

 

“I’m not much of a Monet girl,” Emma shrugs. “I’m more of a _money_ girl.”

 

Jones is utterly unimpressed with the joke, brow pinched in annoyance, and Emma grins at him. He shakes his head at her, mutters something unflattering under his breath, and stalks off.

 

“Sore loser,” she comments, continuing across the warehouse. There’s another woman sitting in one of four chairs behind a desk facing the wall of screens. Emma isn’t particularly interested in any more conversation, but it seems like those seats are for them. Might as well take advantage.

 

She takes the seat farthest from the other woman. Upon closer inspection, Emma could swear she recognizes her. Their business isn’t exactly the type that encourages networking, but when you’re especially good, people tend to take notice. It’s how Emma is able to recognize the woman working on the displays.

 

She doesn’t actually know her name or her face, that’s not how it works. Most people, the people who like to make a show of it, have a signature. The red hair, nails, lips. Those are specific to a certain well known hacker. _Red_ . Yeah, it’s a little on the nose but, hey, they’re _criminals_.

 

The woman at the desk, though, Emma can’t place other than a familiarity. There’s something off about it, though. Like the eyes are right and the chin is familiar, but everything else seems wrong.

 

“You’re staring,” the woman points out and Emma does jump a little this time because she hadn’t even realized she was.

 

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Emma says haltingly. “Just thought I recognized you from somewhere.”

 

“Oh, sweetie,” the woman sighs, a grin that somehow both mischievous and melancholy lighting up her soft features. “You probably recognize me from _everywhere_.”

 

Emma frowns at this but the speaker system gives a loud noise of feedback and the screens have gone an ominous shade of blue again. Red lets out another string of curses and tugs on a wire until it disconnects and the sound stops. Jones comes towards the desk, chuckling and rubbing a finger over his ear. He drops into the seat next to Emma, wagging his eyebrows at her. He seems to have forgiven her for the Monet joke.

 

“Ah,” Jones grins, directing his attentions at the other woman this time. “Ms. White, I thought you’d made an honest woman of yourself, last I heard.”

 

“Turns out honesty doesn’t suit me,” is all the other woman offers, not even looking up to meet Jones’ eye.  Whether it’s out of general disinterest in the conversation or an effort to lie, Emma can’t tell. Which, in and of itself says something about this woman’s skills.

 

Emma frowns at the moniker, and the exchange as whole, but it makes something click in her mind. Ms. White. Snow White. _That’s_ why Emma recognizes her. Of course, the last time she’d stumbled upon Snow in the middle of her own con, she’d been blonde with a more orange-based foundation. World class grifter, known for her ability to spin a tale and convince the weak and unimaginative minds to simply give her whatever she wanted.

 

It’s a bit simple for Emma’s taste, but game recognizes game.

 

Regardless, it’s the same case as with Red, Emma only knows the woman by her codename - Snow White, in case there was still pause over Red as an actual thief’s handle -, but most of her victims know her by her personas. A bored housewife name Paula, a French art inspector named Emilie, the English duchess Charlotte. These are only the ones Emma’s even heard of and can directly tie to Snow White. The woman’s actual alias count is probably beyond Emma’s purview.

 

She had intended to come to this meeting, _whatever_ it is, and be the silent, mysterious type. Her curiosity is too much, though, and she can’t keep herself from blurting, “You two know each other?”

 

Of course, she regrets it as soon as Jones’ gaze lands on her once more. His lips have ticked upwards in that smug smirk she’s quickly growing accustomed to and his eyes dance with mirth.

 

“No need for jealousy, darling,” he drawls and Emma resists the childish urge to kick him in the shin. “Snow and I have merely set our sights on the same mark a time or two before. It’s a friendly competition of sorts.”

 

Snow snorts. “Can it be called a competition when you always lose?”

 

Jones’ eyes flash with something like annoyance and Emma guesses their dynamic may not be as friendly as he’d like her to believe. It instantly makes her question the validity of this supposed crack team Spencer has assembled. Negative dynamics make for a difficult team, it’s why Emma works alone now. Jones has different skillsets, but Emma can tell he prefers the grift. Two grifters on one team can be messy.

 

To his credit, Jones doesn’t respond short of a false grin in Snow’s direction. Emma is considering getting up and leaving, letting Spencer and his mess of a team sort out his problem without her, when the warehouse door falls shut loudly behind a pair of new arrivals.

 

Two men cross the large space and, even before they hit the low light illuminating the center of the warehouse, George Spencer’s straight-backed gait and silhouette is easily recognizable. When they reach the light, Emma studies the man with him. He’s younger, looking to be closer to her own age, and his light hair is cut in a similar style to George’s. It’s not quite as shaven, but cut short into something resembling a military cut. His suit is nearly identical as well, tailored and expensive, a shade lighter gray than George’s.

 

_His son_ , she realizes, remembering the information she’d pulled up on Spencer after their first meeting. He has one son, an only child. His wife passed away right after their son, James, was born. There’s some weirdness surrounding the pregnancy and birth itself, but Emma kept to the important stuff. Like what exactly Spencer might be involved in currently that would cause him to hire a team of criminals.

 

She’d found exactly nothing. Not to be misled, the guy is an asshole. Exactly what you’d expect him to be from looking at him. A list of lawsuits filed against him longer than Emma’s theft record, but all of them seem to just disappear without ever making it to court. Not a good guy, to be sure, but nothing that has really chased Emma off the payday so far.

 

Once she realizes who’s joined them, Red stops fussing with the cords and joins the rest of them at the desk. She has a remote in her hand now and, despite taking her seat, continues to fiddle with it. Images light up the screens for quick seconds before disappearing and being replaced by others. Spencer clears his throat, but the movement on the screens doesn’t stop.

 

“I assume you’ve all gotten yourselves acquainted by now,” he says, as if he’s addressing a class of grade schoolers rather than four of the world’s best thieves. Emma realizes that he’s already got them on the hook, now he can let the genial facade from their first meeting fade. This time she’ll be meeting the real George Spencer. “If not, I’m sure you’ll make time if you like. At the moment, it’s time we discuss the details of your employment.”

 

Emma can feel the skepticism rolling off of the four people sharing the desk. If she doesn’t trust Spencer, she’s certainly not the only one. Jones’ leg bounces in an irritating rhythm next to hers and she can hear the repetitive _clack_ of Red’s nails against the wood.

 

“James, if you will,” Spencer says, gesturing towards Red. James steps forward and plucks the remote from her hand, not without effort to release it from her grip. With an almost disarmingly charming smile at Red, he presses a button and the six screens come to life. The image of a woman covers the six of them. Smiling and unassuming, she appears to be nearing sixty with gray streaked hair and crinkles around her eyes.

 

Jones’ leg stops bouncing next to her as Emma’s eyebrow goes up in consideration. She looks perfectly harmless, but she of all people knows looks can be deceiving.

 

“Ruth Nolan,” Spencer explains. James has clasped the remote between his hands, resting them in front of himself. “Don’t let her friendly appearance blind you, she’s a ruthless negotiator. A woman who put herself through law school at a late age, Nolan is now a self-made woman with a mediator position at the top law firm in New York.”

 

“What did she do to you?” Snow pipes up when Spencer pauses. He turns his gaze on her and it’s hard and calculating, but Snow doesn’t cower under it. Emma is impressed. “If it were something triable in court, you wouldn’t need us. She’s a mediator, but you have some of the world’s best lawyers on your payroll. So, what did she do?”

 

“Well deduced, Ms. - what was it? - White?” Spencer says, his grin lacking the charm of his son’s. Regardless, he answers her question, “She stole some documents from me. I have reason to believe she’s keeping them in the safe in her office.”

 

“If she stole them, why not just call the police?” Jones asks, his fingers dance over the wood of the table and the metal of his rings make a quiet rhythm. “Surely you’ve got one or two of New York’s finest on your payroll as well.”

 

“This is a very sensitive matter and I can’t trust the police with the discretion necessary,” George explains, ignoring the accusation in Jones’ words. “You four on the other hand, well, discretion is your livelihood, isn’t it?”

 

“And what is it, exactly, you want us to do?” Emma asks, quickly growing weary of the exposition. Her fingers are prickling with the want to run, but she feels obligated to see this through. It’s simply the thief in her rebelling to the idea of attachments and variables team members bring.

 

“Ah, well, for that I’ll leave it to my son. He’ll be in charge of your little mission and you’ll defer to him with any and all questions.” Spencer nods once, brusquely, as he claps James on the shoulder. James echoes it with a nod of his own before turning another smile on the group. Emma might be fooled by the gentle look of it if she didn’t know better. Everything she’s read tells her one thing; James Spencer is, first and foremost, his father’s son.

 

George turns and heads out of the warehouse. Emma figures this will be the last time they’ll see him. He’s washing his hands of this illegal endeavour and, once they’ve been paid, they’ll never hear from him again.

 

“Right, well, Nolan’s law firm has thirty-four floors,” James says, tapping a button on the remote that fills the screens with a large blueprint of the building. Another press and it zooms suddenly, highlighting a floor a few down from the top. “Her office is on the twenty-seventh floor.”

 

“And how do you suggest we get there?” Red asks, a bite to her voice that makes Emma think she’s probably still annoyed at having her toy taken from her. “Everything above the first eighteen floors are only accessible with an employee ID badge.”

 

James raises a questioning eyebrow at her, but Ruby only smirks enigmatically back. Emma shakes her head and looks back at the screen.

 

“So, we go down from the roof,” she says at the exact moment Snow says, “We’ll have to steal an ID badge.”

 

Snow leans forward on the desk to make eye contact with Emma past Jones, looking a little bewildered by the suggestion. “The roof?”

 

“Sure, set up a rigging that gets us from the roof of an adjacent building to the law firm after closing. From there, we use the air ducts,” Emma explains with a shrug. “Though, they’re more suited for one person than four.”

 

“Not that simple,” James inserts, looking a little peeved that they’ve stolen his briefing. “During the day, those floors are teeming with people. Lawyers, paralegals, interns, you name it. At night, the alarm system comes up.”

 

James clicks the remote again and this time a simulation comes up. The floor plan of the twenty-seventh floor lights up with laser traps, motion sensors, and bio scanners.

 

“Whoa,” Emma breathes and Red lets out a low whistle.

 

James smirks. “Now that I’ve got your attention, allow me to tell you the plan.”

 

-/-

 

“Jones, I’ve got your badge, where’s mine?” Snow’s voice comes crackling over the comm in Emma’s ear. She shakes her head as Killian grumbles over the line about _impatience_. She’s just listened to Snow successfully distract a man while she picked his pocket and stole his employee ID from his wallet in no time flat.

 

On his end, Killian is still lavishing some poor, unsuspecting girl with compliments while he talks her out of her ID badge. The competition is ridiculous, but as long as they’re both playing their parts Emma doesn’t mind. There’s an ID scanner at the front entrance that logs every time an employee enters or exits. It’s a bit high grade for a law firm, but it cuts down the cost of a manned security check-in.

 

Unfortunately, it means Snow and Killian have to corner their targets outside of the firm and work their IDs off them from there. It’s nearing the end of the business day, though, so the front sidewalk is teeming with unsuspecting workers waiting for cabs and moving about busily.

 

“Tick tock,” Snow singsongs, enjoying herself perhaps too much, as she waits by the front entrance. Emma can see her from her perch on the building over, but it’s difficult. Her light grey pantsuit nearly makes her disappear among the rest of the crowd. Killian, on the other hand, stands out in his expensive burgundy suit. Emma aims her binoculars at him and her eyes nearly roll out of her head in annoyance when she realizes he still has the top three buttons of his shirt undone.

 

“Can’t rush perfection, love,” he comments lowly, in order not to spook the girl, but his target is slipping him her card and turning to head down the sidewalk. He bends his arm behind his back and, as he turns, Emma catches the flash of the white ID card standing out against his colorful suit. He meets Snow at the entrance and they swap their cards out surreptitiously.

 

“If you two are done screwing around,” James bites. “Can we get a move on?”

 

“Relax,” Killian hisses. He’s disappeared through the doors now and Emma can no longer see him. She drops her binoculars. “We’re well on the time schedule, mate.”

 

“Don’t jinx it,” Red comments. Emma doesn’t have to raise her binoculars to find her as she cuts through the crowd. Her outfit is casual, a bright red scarf tied around her hair and a pair of glasses that look remarkably like the ones Emma wore as a teenager perched on her nose. “Just get me in the building.”

 

She’s carrying a messenger bag and follows after Snow and Killian into the building where Emma can’t see them anymore. They’ve still got half an hour before the building actually closes, but she sets to work on hooking up her rigging. From here, it’s Snow and Killian’s job to get Ruby inside, under the guise of off-site technical assistance, and down into the server room where she can bend the alarm system to her hacker whims.

 

Emma’s job is just to zipline the fifty or so feet between buildings onto the law firms roof and then make her way through the ventilation system onto the twenty-seventh floor. Easy, really.

 

The rigging is secure enough to transport her weight and Emma hears Red confirm that the rest of them are in position, but it’s still a waiting game. Emma figures that, even in New York at sunset, people might take notice of a woman ziplining between buildings. The plan is to wait for security to do their last walk through, after which Red will loop the feed from the night before to the security monitors. Once the building is well and truly closed, they go in.

 

“This is a silent heist,” James had said, ignoring Red’s questioning ‘ _shouldn’t all heists be silent_?’. “Meaning we get in and out without anyone knowing we were there to begin with.”

 

By “we”, of course, James had meant _them_. He was hardly about to storm the building with them, tucked safely away in their getaway van on the next block over. He would monitor them through the comms and any of the security feed Red fed him, but that was it. Not that Emma minds, the man may fancy himself a mastermind, but he’s hardly a seasoned veteran of the thief business like the rest of them.

 

Emma swings her legs over the edge of the building she’s on, perched on the safety barrier meant to keep people from doing exactly what she’s doing currently, and peers down at the busy street below. Cabs are still speeding along, yellow blips from her high vantage point. The cars remind her of lines of particularly dedicated bugs, weaving around obstacles like buildings and other cars, intent on their destination.

 

The last time she’d worked with a team had been so long ago, another lifetime it felt like sometimes. Their heists hadn’t been nearly as grand or organized as this, street kids left out in the world, stealing because it gave them a sense of control. That control had been Emma’s anchor, those people whom she loved almost too much for it to end in anything but disappointment. Before it all went to hell.

 

She’s a thief, light and quick. She’s not really supposed to be weighed down, anyway.

 

The thought must pull some sort of noise from her, a huff of discomfort or groan of pain, without her knowledge because she hears Killian over the comms, “Alright there, Swan?”

 

“Yeah,” she grunts, pulling her legs back towards her and sliding easily off the barrier and back onto the roof. The sun has nearly completely set and the black cords of her rigging all but disappear into the twilight backdrop. “Just wanna get this over with.”

 

It’s been a long time since she’s allowed herself the thought of that team, her first and only until now, in more than passing. Despite the time between, it still aches through her chest, unseating her in what should be her element. There are some pains she’ll never get over, she supposes, but it’s nice to convince herself she has sometimes.

 

“Patience,” Snow chides, her voice light and quiet over the bud in Emma’s ear, Red’s own design. It’s not harsh or patronizing, but gentle and firm. Like a mother chiding an overeager child. “The key to a quiet heist is picking your moment.”

 

Emma wants to bite back - she’s been in the game longer than most people, after all -, but finds herself incapable. Instead, she sighs and wraps her gloved fingers around the cords, allowing her whole weight to dangle from it. She presses her toes to the concrete of the roof and bounces a few times, checking the security of the rig once more, if only for something to do.

 

“Ah, hello, mates,” Killian’s voice comes again, clearly directed at someone other than the team. Emma frowns, placing her weight back on the solidity of the roof. There’s some shuffling on the other end, a few grunts, and then sudden quiet.

 

“Jones!” James barks, a little too loudly considering the speakers are literally inside of their ears. “What the hell was that?”

 

“No worries,” Killian huffs back, sounding mildly out of breath. “Just ran into some security doing their final sweep. They’ll be alright come morning, save a minor headache.”

 

“Dammit,” James hisses.

 

“So much for a quiet heist,” Snow laments at the same time.

 

“You really aren’t good at subverting security, are you?” Emma asks, more amused than the rest of the team. Killian tutts at her, the sound just barely being picked up by his own earbud, and she can’t stop the smirk from twitching at her lips.

 

“Careful, Swan,” he admonishes. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about our last encounter.”

 

“Alright, that’s final sweeps,” James says, though it feels like background noise to their conversation. Still, Emma knows what it means. “You’re good to fly, Ms. Swan.”

 

Emma rolls her eyes at the awful turn of phrase and steps up onto the barrier once more. She hooks the harness around her torso onto the cord between the buildings.

 

“How could you?” Emma grins, her words directed still at Killian, her toes dancing dangerously close to where concrete meets open air. “I’m incredibly unforgettable.”

 

She steps off the ledge and then there’s suddenly nothing beneath her or above her besides the wind. Mankind has created a metal marvel that transports people through the air, but this? This is the closest they’ll ever get to knowing flight.

 

It’s an indescribable feeling and, despite having done it before on multiple occasions, Emma can’t stop the breathless laugh it pulls from her lungs, high and slightly manic.

 

The only thing she hears over the wind rushing past her and her own laugh is Killian’s voice, something like pride or bewilderment shining through, “Aye, that you are.”

 

Her feet land on the concrete roof of the law firm and Emma drops easily out of her harness. She presses a button on the rig and the cord detaches from the metal anchor on the building she’d come from. The line slaps harmlessly against a window a few stories below her and begins to be retracted into the anchor on this side.

 

Her own personal rigs aren’t usually so high tech, but Red spent a week perfecting this one for this moment. Some things about having a team aren’t so bad, Emma will admit.

 

“I’m on the roof,” she declares, pressing her index finger to her ear unnecessarily. James begins speaking, but it’s directed at Red, so Emma tunes him out. She pulls a screwdriver from the small pack tied to her waist - _it’s not a fanny pack_ , she had needed to insist to the team more than once - and begins loosening the screws on the air duct.

 

“Jones, go meet Swan once she gets to the office.” That gets her attention. She halts the circular motion of her wrist, jerking it back from the duct. The screw is loose enough that it tips and falls from the hole, making a metallic tinkling as it hits the pavement and rolls away from her.

 

“What? Why?” Emma questions. She chases the screw down and stuffs it in her pouch with the other three and the screwdriver.

 

“Security is down two guys,” James explains as Emma lifts the grate up and deposits it quietly on the roof. “If they decide to go looking for them, you’re going to want backup.”

 

“Being that it is my fault,” Killian admits, surprisingly chagrinned. “It’d be a pity for you to get caught over it.”

 

Emma grumbles a little bit, more disgruntled noises than actual words, as she climbs down into the duct, but decides not to fight it. She’s done just fine on her own without backup for years. Regardless, she knows part of her payday depends on her ability to follow Spencer’s son’s orders. If he says backup, then backup she shall have.

 

Red guides her through the ventilation system down to the twenty-seventh floor. It’s not ideal, lots of sharp drops and cold metal from the day’s air conditioning. At least, the firm appears to have some esteem for their workers’ health, Emma’s never been in a cleaner vent.

 

“Red, can you override the ID lock on the lift bay?” Killian asks.

 

“Shit,” Red groans. “I can, as in I have the ability, but it’ll alert the security office to an unauthorized use. I could try to override that particular system, but I won’t be able to keep it up long enough to get the elevator down to you and then up to the twenty-seventh floor.”

 

There’s a beat of silence. Emma figures everyone is aware that if Red is saying she can’t do it, that means it simply can’t be done.

 

“So, what _can_ you do?” Killian responds after a moment.

 

“Advocate wholeheartedly for the stairs,” Red says.

 

There’s a quiet curse from Killian, but no further argument. Red overrides the keycard locks on the stairwell doors when he reaches them and Killian begins to head towards Emma’s location. Less than a minute later, she pulls a vent up and drops quietly into Ruth Nolan’s office.

 

“Jones, I’m here,” she murmurs. “ETA?”

 

“Bloody hell, do you know how high up the twenty-seventh floor is?” Killian pants in her ear. “It’s twenty-seven flights of stairs, Swan, I’m not the Flash.”

 

Emma rolls her eyes and focuses herself instead on finding the safe. There’s nothing that outwardly screams _safe_. A few locked cabinets that most likely hold client files, a locked desk drawer with nothing underneath it.

 

“Killian, stop,” Red says suddenly. She must be typing with a vengeance because Emma can hear the clacking of her nails against the keys over the comm.

 

“What?” Killian gasps, exertion evident in his voice.

 

“Someone’s called the elevator with a security key card,” Red explains. “Whatever floor you’re currently on, if you can get to the elevator bay I can mask you behind the secure card swipe from their elevator.”

 

“Got it,” Killian says. “Thirteenth floor.”

 

“Halfway there,” Snow comments. She’s been silent mostly now that her major part of the heist is over. Emma figures she’s still in the server room with Red. “Might as well run the rest of the way.”

 

“Hilarious,” Killian bites.

 

Emma decides the most obvious choice is also the most probable and pulls the painting hanging on the wall behind Nolan’s desk away from it’s nail. Predictably, a rectangular metal door hides the wall safe behind it. It’s pretty basic, as safes go. She figures it’s something Nolan had installed herself, rather than the company providing it and paying for a state of the art safe. It makes sense that she would assume whatever secrets hide inside would be better protected under all of the security in the building than in her home.

 

Most people don’t make contingencies for the unlikely, but not impossible, happenstance in which four of the world’s best criminals team up.

 

“Okay,” Emma breathes, leaning towards the safe. It won’t take long to crack, but she’s going to need silence to be able to hear the tumblers clicking into place. She spins the dial slowly, listening to each tick as a number moves past the dial.

 

It’s only a moment, but it feels longer as she waits for the pop of the tumbler that lets her know to start spinning the opposite direction. Right after it does, Red speaks and Emma pauses in her work.

 

“Okay, Jones, the elevator is about to reach your floor.” Killian grunts in response and Red goes on, “Whoever is in there is using a security pass. Do us all a favor and don’t punch your way out of this one.”

 

“I never do if I can help it, darling,” he drawls, but there’s an annoyance there. Emma knows he’s considerably renowned for his skills in talking his way out of things. She wonders if he isn’t a fan of the violence he’s also well known for.

 

She keeps still, commless ear pressed to the cool metal of the safe, and waits. There’s the ding of the elevator, nearly a whisper over the earbud.

 

“James?” Killian asks and Emma frowns. That’s not reassuring.

 

“I’m sorry?” She hears over the comm a beat before James says, “What’s wrong?”

 

“Oh, sorry, mate,” Killian chuckles. “Thought you were someone else.”

 

It goes quiet, no one questioning Killian now that he’s sharing the elevator with someone. They must not ask him why he’s still in the building or how he got missed on the security walk throughs. Emma goes back to the task at hand, turning the dial until she hears the next telltale click, back the other way once more until the locks slide into place and she can swing the safe open.

 

“Not security,” she hears Killian mumble.

 

“What?” Red asks. The sentiment is echoed on Killian’s end from his company in the elevator.

 

“You’re not security,” he clarifies a little louder. Emma stops again, her fingertips on the edge of the safe, and focuses on trying to hear the other man on Killian’s end. The comms are easily the best in existence, but they’re not totally reliable for hearing everything.

 

“Uh, no,” the guy chuckles, a warm sound. “Just forgot something in my office.”

 

It’s a good lie, but even over the feed Emma can hear it is one. Killian takes a long time to reply and Emma knows he’s drawn the same conclusion. James calls his name from the safety of his nondescript van, but Killian ignores him.

 

“Sorry, Red,” he sighs. “I told you when I could avoid it.”

 

Emma hears the sound of his fist connecting with what she can only imagine must be the other man’s jaw. He doesn’t go down as easily as Killian is clearly expecting and there’s a grunt that she figures means Killian took a hit in return.

 

She ignores the commotion and plunges her hand into the safe. It’s tall, taller than she’d expect Ruth Nolan to be, so Emma has to reach up on her toes and just sort of feel around. Her hand lands on a velvet pouch and nothing else.

 

“Bloody hell,” Killian murmurs once the commotion has stopped. It doesn’t sound frustrated or tired out, though, Emma realizes. It sounds _scared_. Which is enough to give her pause.

 

“What’s the problem, Jones?” James asks.

 

“I’m on my way to you, Swan,” Killian informs her, ignoring the question. Emma doesn’t respond, instead unzipping the pouch and peering inside.

 

“We have another problem,” she says.

 

She hears the elevator ding on her floor, Ruth’s office close to the elevator bay. Red must have total control over the security systems by now, because Killian knocks on the office door gently. Emma turns and pulls the door open.

 

“Another one?” James questions. Emma holds the bag out for Killian to see. He frowns and lets out a quiet curse before turning to the safe to double check. Emma would be offended, but at least he’s tall enough to actually see into the safe.

 

“There are no documents in her safe,” Emma explains. “Nothing but a bag full of some jewels. They’re not even worth a whole lot, they just look old. Maybe they’ve got sentimental value.”

 

“I don’t care about the damn jewels!” James snaps. Emma looks up just in time to catch Killian spin around from the safe, back towards her. He catches her eye and raises an eyebrow, Emma’s own furrow.

 

“Calm down,” Snow says softly. There’s a surprising heat behind it, though, a beratement. Emma doesn’t know how the woman can convey so much in her gentle tone, but respects it nonetheless. James is breathing heavy on his end, anger getting the best of him.

 

“The computer,” he barks. “Check her computer.”

 

“And do _what_?” Emma responds, annoyed at being snapped at like trained dogs. “I don’t even know what I’m actually looking for.”

 

“Red, can you access her computer from where you are?” He asks.

 

“Uh,” Red hesitates, but Emma kind of feels like it’s more for emphasis. “ _No_ . Not without a proxy or a trojan that actually _lets_ me access her computer from mine.”

 

“Dammit, did we not have a contingency for this?!”

 

“Hey! This is not our fault, all right?” Emma snaps, zipping the velvet bag closed. “You were supposed to be the _genius_ here, we were told to show up, follow instructions, and get paid!”

 

There’s something like a growl from James, but Red is already solving the problem rather than fighting about is. “Jones, the security guard in the elevator, what’d you do with him?”

 

“I left him in the elevator car,” Killian says with a frown. “But, he wasn’t security.”

 

“He had a security _badge_ ,” Red enthuses. “I’m masking the elevator from sight in the security office, but I don’t have long. I’m sending him back down to you, get the badge from him.”

 

Killian doesn’t waste time asking questions, instead he turns and jogs back to the elevators. Red turns her attentions on Emma.

 

“Swan, I’m sending a download for an app I created to your phone,” Red continues, barely taking a moment to breathe. “Download it.”

 

Emma feels her phone vibrate in the pouch at her hip. She pulls it out and starts the download. Killian returns with the badge just as it finishes.

 

“I moved the man to the bathroom on this floor,” he explains. There’s a furrow to his brow that Emma doesn’t like, but Killian must sense the question she’s about to ask and shakes his head. _Not now_ , he mouths, hand still clutching the security badge raising to tap his ear, and Emma nods once. Whatever it is, Killian doesn’t want it broadcast over the comms.

 

“Okay, that app is gonna read the magnetic strip on the ID badge,” Red explains. “It’ll send it to me and then I’ll be able to match the ID badge Snow has to it. I’m gonna send her up to you guys with a trojan horse.”

 

Emma nods, even though Red can’t see her, but figures she isn’t really looking for feedback anyway. Killian holds the badge up, magentic stip facing her, and Emma points the camera on Red’s app at it. It identifies the strip with a green box and, well, Emma can’t even begin to explain how it does _whatever_ it does, but it must work because the next thing she hears is Red telling her Snow’s on her way up to them.

 

Killian catches her attention and taps at his ear once before removing the comm altogether. Emma frowns, responding to Red, and follows suit.

 

“What is it?” She whispers, well aware that the earbuds might still pick them up. Killian reaches forward, taking the velvet bag from her gently and placing it on top of where their comms rest on the desk.

 

“The man in the lift,” Killian begins quietly. “He- fuck, I’m not sure who he _was_ , but he looked just like James.”

 

“James?” Emma responds, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “How similar?”

 

“Identical,” Killian hisses. “There is more here than what Mr. Spencer and his son are telling us.”

 

“More?” Emma frowns. “What do you think, Jones, he’s a cyborg sent to replace James and destroy us?”

 

“Nothing so fantastical,” Killian sighs, an undeniable pout turning his mouth downwards. “I just think we may want to tread carefully.”

 

The elevator dings outside the office and Emma nods at Killian. He lifts the bag and holds her comm out to her. She presses it back into her ear as James begins rattling off a list of buzzwords that the documents may be titled or contain so Red can narrow her search. It’s not like Emma trusted the Spencers before, so Killian’s assertion that they should be wary doesn’t really change anything. It does, however, confirm that it’s not just her that is feeling that way.

 

“You guys went off comms,” Snow says, coming into the door. Killian had left it open behind him after going to get the security badge. “Is everything alright?”

 

“Yeah,” Emma nods, trying to look innocuous. Red groans.

 

“God, were you two making out? Yuck. You were making out, weren’t you?”

 

“No,” Emma says at the same time Killian says “Yes.” She turns to glare at him and he smirks in response, attempting to wink at her, but both of his eyes close with the gesture. It’s oddly endearing. Emma returns her attention to Snow. “Do you have the virus?”

 

Snow nods and takes a seat behind the desk. She boots the desktop up, pushing a USB drive into the port.

 

“Shoot,” she hisses. Emma raises an eyebrow at the non-swear and Snow explains, “Password.”

 

Emma leans forward, around Snow, and feels under the desk. Her fingers sweep over a piece of paper taped to the wood and she pulls it off, feeling victorious. “Password security is no joke,” she comments as she hands it to Snow.

 

“D-A-V-I-D,” Snow reads aloud as she types the letters in. The computer unlocks to the desktop and Snow opens the flash drive, double clicking Red’s trojan virus. Almost instantly, she loses control of the computer to the hacker twenty-eight stories below them.

 

The cursor moves of it’s own accord, the screen lighting up as Red searches each drive for the keywords James had given her. Emma watches the words move across the screen, but they’re almost too fast to keep up with as Red works furiously.

 

At some point, Emma hears loud footsteps in the open space of desks and cubicles outside of Nolan’s office. They’re heavy and clumsy movements and Snow must hear them, too, because she starts shooing Emma and Killian towards the vent Emma had dropped down from earlier.

 

“I’ll handle it,” she hisses. Emma watches her dubiously for a moment, but, short on options, hops up to get a hold on the vent and hoist herself inside. Snow takes the velvet pouch from Killian before Emma helps him in as well. It’s admittedly a tight squeeze, with Killian landing on top of her, but they’re too busy holding their breath and watching Snow through the grate to think much of it.

 

Snow moves back towards the computer, turning the monitor off and pulling the USB drive from its port, before busying herself with pretending to be digging through the safe. Emma chews her lip and watches.

 

“What are you doing in here?” A man asks and, when he comes into view through the slots of the grate, Emma has to press her hand to her mouth to keep from gasping.

 

“Told you,” Killian murmurs so quietly Emma feels the words form against the skin of her ear more than she hears them. It’s not smug, which she would expect from Killian, but concerned. She understands, though. It’s not just a similarity, it’s like _Parent Trap_ -level identical. And that was just one girl playing both roles.

 

Emma frowns at the thought and tries to remember the keywords James had given Red.

 

“Oh,” Snow breathes, her surprise working for her to make her sound breathless and startled at the intrusion. She lets out a tittering laugh and presses her hand over her heart. “You scared me. I was just looking for something I locked in my safe before I head home for the night. It’s been a long day.”

 

“This isn’t your office,” the man says, advancing on Snow. Emma frowns, eyes focused on the scene. She shouldn’t have left Snow to deal with it on her own.

 

“I’m sorry?” Snow responds, hands on her hips as she stares the man down. “Do you even work here, Mr…?”

 

“Nolan,” he answers smoothly, taking another step in Snow’s direction. “And no, but my mother does. In fact, we’re standing in her office.”

 

_Mother_ , Emma thinks a little startled. The pieces click together and she realizes exactly what they’ve been missing this entire time. She wants to scream, a particular string of curse words coming to mind, but holds herself together.

 

Snow tilts her head defiantly. “You’re not supposed to be here either, are you?”

 

“Not technically, no,” he shrugs. He lurches forward suddenly, sending Snow stumbling backwards, but all he does is snatch the velvet pouch from her hands. “But I’m not a thief, so they’ll forgive me. I wonder what they’ll do to you.”

 

“Do you wanna call security or should I?” Snow asks, tilting sideways towards the desk to reach the corded phone. She holds it out to him, cord stretched between them. When the man reaches for it, Snow lashes out suddenly, striking him with the heavy plastic. It knocks him to the floor at least, disorienting him. Emma notices his chin is bleeding.

 

While he struggles to get his bearings, the fall probably knocking the wind from him as well, Snow snatches the velvet pouch back. She gives one furtive glance in the direction of the vent and bolts out the door.

 

“You can’t run from this!” He yells after her, pushing himself to his knees. He stumbles out the door, possibly suffering from head trauma at their team’s affliction. “I will find you!”

 

“Okay, we are officially out of time,” Snow says, huffing into her comm. Emma assumes she took the stairs, rather than the elevator. “Emma, Killian, get out of the building. Red, I’m coming to you. Do me a favor, send an elevator up or down, I don’t care. Don’t mask it, though, I want alarms blaring. Just make sure it’s not going to stop anywhere near the ground floor.”

 

“Roger,” Red responds, furious typing once again loud enough to penetrate the comms.

 

Emma shoves at Killian’s shoulder and they twist awkwardly until she’s on top of him. It’s a process to get in the position and they both huff for a moment, a little winded from it. Killian grins up at her, back to his usual self now that he’s registered their position more fully. He leans up towards her and Emma thinks he might try and kiss her, wonders why she isn’t punching him in the face for the attempt, but he veers suddenly. His lips land right next to her ear, the one without the comm she notices.

 

“What do you say, Swan?” He breathes, warm breath dancing over her earlobe. She can’t see his grin, with his mouth nearly pressed to her skin, but she can hear it in his voice. “Shall we make that kiss a reality?”

 

Emma shoves his shoulder down roughly, the blade of it connecting with the metal of the vent with a _thud_. He takes it in stride, though, chuckling as she pushes herself onto all fours and crawls over him.

 

“Crawl,” she commands. “Just follow me, alright? Our escape route is on the roof.”

 

He does as he’s told, crawling through the vent with a little less grace and a little louder than she’d normally like. But, to be fair, he can’t exactly put the weight on his false hand and the whole heist has already been blown. At least if security is trying to chase them through the vents, they’re not looking at Red and Snow walking right out the front door.

 

Emma doesn’t actually know if her rig will support their combined weight once they reach the roof, but it’s their best bet. Climbing up eight stories through the air ducts is hard enough, climbing down twenty-seven would take too long and be too much of a risk. They’ll just have to trust Red’s hardwork will pay off.

 

“How do you feel about heights?” Emma asks, taking Killian’s hand to help pull him from the duct once they reach the roof.

 

“There’s a reason I own a ship,” he says. “It means no air travel.”

 

“Ah, and here I thought you were just a man of refined taste in sea travel,” Emma comments, pulling her abandoned harness back over her shoulders and buckling it appropriately over her torso. Killian stands at the edge of the building, peering over the safety barrier.

 

“Aye,” he nods, voice tight. “That as well, of course.”

 

Emma steps over to him and motions for him to remove his suit jacket. He does, tossing the dark red material aside. It’s a shame to lose it, she considers, objectively the color really does suit him. She frees a strap from the harness and loops it around his waist, through his belt loops.

 

“Okay, this isn’t really meant for two people,” she tells him. “So, you’re gonna have to hold onto me. Tight.”

 

“Oh, love, I was so hoping I’d hear you say that,” he offers, a smirk dancing across his features. Emma rolls her eyes, but she can tell he’s feeling nervous about this, so she let’s him have it.

 

“I’m not gonna drop you.” She clips them onto the rigging and flicks a switch on the anchor that will allow them to repel slowly. Well, slow- _ish_. They step up onto the safety barrier.

 

“I would despair if you did,” Killian responds, once again trying for light and just falling short. Emma tugs him towards her, arms coming around him in a bear hug. His eyes meet hers, bright blue and intense, and he copies her movements, arms wrapping almost painfully tight around her ribs.

 

She doesn’t actually give him a warning so much as just nudge him over the edge into a freefall.

 

-/-

 

James picks them all up in the van, but drops them only a few blocks away after Red gives him the drive with the files and assures him they’d been deleted from Nolan’s computer.

 

“Why take the jewelry?” Killian asks suddenly, once James has driven away and they’re all standing on an empty New York sidewalk right before dawn. Snow turns to him, eyebrow raised at the question, but it’s Emma who answers.

 

“Misdirection,” she explains. “If they know Snow was there for the safe, they won’t think to look at the computer.”

 

“Clever,” Killian admits and Snow ducks her head to hide her smile.

 

“So,” Snow sighs a moment later, because they’re all still just standing around like idiots. “This was fun.”

 

“Yeah, I’m still not much of a team player,” Emma says immediately.

 

“One time thing,” Red agrees, nodding. Her fake glasses are hanging from the neck of her t-shirt.

 

Snow and Killian nod in return. Emma slaps her palms against the outsides of her thighs and shrugs. “Well, see you guys around, then.”

 

She turns and heads down the street, more interested in putting distance between herself and them than making sure she’s heading in the right direction. In her peripheral, she sees the other three do the same thing, heading in their own random directions.

 

Except, she makes it about four buildings before suddenly Killian comes out of an alley to rejoin her. Emma raises her eyebrows at him. His suit jacket gone, he’s unbuttoned the sleeves of his dark grey dress shirt and rolled them to his elbows. His hair is still windswept from their test of gravity.

 

“So, what are we gonna do?” He asks, like they’ve been having a conversation.

 

“I’m gonna go home and sleep for the next ten hours,” she tells him. “You feel free to do whatever you want, far away from me.”

 

Killian rolls his eyes, huffing as if _she’s_ the one being difficult. “I meant about this Spencer situation. I’m sure we’re both thinking the same thing about David Nolan.”

 

“We don’t know he’s David for sure,” she rebuts.

 

“Fine, then, what are we going to do about Nolan’s son?” He tries again. Emma halts on the sidewalk and, after a few steps, Killian realizes she’s stopped and follows suit.

 

“Nothing,” Emma says, once she has made direct eye contact with him. “We’re not the good guys, Killian. We did what we were paid to do, alright? Anything else is out of our hands.”

 

She starts moving again, striding right past him. He doesn’t follow her this time, contemplating her response. She doesn’t glance back at him, but he calls out to her when she’s nearly too far away.

 

“You don’t actually believe that,” he says. It’s not a question, it’s a statement. As if he knows her after one shared heist and a week of prep. He doesn’t know shit.

 

Emma keeps walking.

 

-/-

 

His name _is_ indeed David Nolan.

 

Emma hadn’t read anything about him because, in her initial study of Ruth Nolan, she hadn’t been looking. She’d been looking for the nitty gritty, something dark and depraved Ruth may have done that would lead a man like George Spencer to go after her. She hadn’t found a thing, not a blip. There wasn’t even so much as an article that mentioned both of their names.

 

She hadn’t been looking for Nolan’s family history, her son and late husband. Now, it’s all she can think about. David had been a child when his father passed away. After years of rehab, he’d fallen off the wagon and drove his car into a median on the highway. After that, Ruth had decided to go back to school in an effort to get a job that could support her son. The family had been struggling since the beginning, with Ruth’s meager salary and her husband’s instability keeping him from holding a job.

 

When she takes a second look into Ruth Nolan, it really ends up being a testament to Emma’s poor research skills. The woman isn’t even currently on payroll with the law firm she’d helped break into. She’d been on sick leave for months, holed up in one of the nicer hospitals in town, before the company said they needed to hire a replacement. It isn’t an official termination, but it’s a pretty good blow off. The upside is that she’s still benefitting from the company’s high quality health insurance.

 

Emma isn’t sure what makes her go to the hospital, it’s absolutely what she’d consider getting too personally invested in a mark. She does it anyway, though, pulling on a pair of pajamas that could pass for scrubs if no one was looking too closely and taking a cab. Inside, she bumps ungracefully into a passing doctor and apologizes profusely before clipping their ID badge to her shirt. She grabs a lab coat from a break room she passes and makes a mental note to return it before the napping doctor inside wakes up.

 

“Can you tell me what room Ruth Nolan is in?” She asks, stepping up to the nurses station. The tired looking woman behind the desk nods and checks a chart before pointing down the hall and giving Emma a room number.

 

It’s a private room in the back corner of the hospital, nice and secluded. _A cozy place to die_ , Emma thinks morbidly. Because that’s what this is. Maybe that’s why she’s here, because she just helped some asshole steal God knows what from a dying woman, because if she’d just done her homework she would have known. But, she didn’t. Now, Ruth Nolan is dying and Emma is the one who is absolutely going to hell.

 

She lingers around the door, it’s got a viewing window, but the curtains are drawn. It’s not like she plans to go in and talk to the woman. It just that- well, that’s the thing, really. Emma doesn’t know _what_ it is. Being here is risky and stupid.

 

Someone comes from inside the room and Emma presses herself against the adjacent wall, trying to disappear. She recognizes them though and reaches out to grab their wrist.

 

“Snow?” She hisses and the woman spins, eyes wide and a little terrified, before they land on Emma. She’s dressed like a candy striper, with a red band tied in her short hair. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I just wanted to,” Snow starts, but cuts herself off as she glances back at Ruth’s room. She turns her gaze back on Emma, a little harder this time. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I,” Emma tries, faltering when she can’t come up with a reason. “I’m not sure.”

 

Snow seems to soften at this. “Yeah, I got home and started looking into her. I just wanted to find out who the man in the office was to her. I didn’t expect, well, this.”

 

“Shit,” Emma sighs. “That’s what we get for letting a couple of zeroes override our common sense.”

 

“Yeah,” Snow says, nodding solemnly. “Anyway, when I saw where she was I kind of just, I guess I wanted to meet her. I think maybe I was hoping she was some awful person and that I could justify it to myself.”

 

“And?”

 

“Yeah, no such luck,” Snow chuckles, a soft smile coming to her face. “She’s lovely. Even tried to set me up with her son.”

 

Emma’s eyes go wide, darting around the hallway. “David? Is he here?”

 

“No, she said he’d be back soon, though, so we should probably-” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder, jutting it towards the front of the hospital. Emma nods and shuffles after her, tugging off the coat and ID badge and tossing them into a laundry basket.

 

“So, did you just have that outfit laying around or..?” Emma questions, raising an eyebrow at Snow’s attired.

 

“Emma,” Snow says, lifting her chin in a way that makes her seem every bit the royal she’s pretended to be on more than one con. “You never know when you’ll need to sneak into a hospital.”

 

Emma laughs, a real, belly laugh, of surprise at the statement and the delivery. Maybe it’s delirium from lack of sleep thanks to her obsessing over Ruth Nolan. Her visit to the hospital hasn’t necessarily made her feel any better, but she likes Snow. Despite her best efforts, she could see them being friends. Not that she intends to stick around that long.

 

She hears someone shout across the parking lot, but doesn’t think much of it. Not until there’s a hand on Snow’s shoulder, tugging her around to face them. Both Emma and Snow go into fight mode, Snow’s arm coming up to shove the hand roughly from her shoulder as Emma steps forward to insert herself in the situation.

 

David Nolan glowers down at Snow, uninterested in Emma’s presence. When they realize who it is that’s stopped them, the fight mostly leaves them. Snow’s chin is still high in defiance as she looks up at him and Emma keeps her shoulders stiff, ready to intervene should he become violent.

 

“I told you I’d find you,” he comments. It’s not as harsh as Emma would have suspected. He doesn’t exactly seem friendly, but, hell, he hasn’t called the cops. That must be a positive.

 

“Technically, I found you,” Snow says. Emma raises an eyebrow at the brazenness. She’s growing to like Snow more and more. David smirks, the movement tugging at the tight skin on his chin and drawing Emma’s attention to the newly scabbed flesh. Who knew office phones could be so dangerous?

 

“Do you know who you’re hanging out with?” David asks, turning his attention on Emma now. “She’s a thief.”

 

Emma just stares at him defiantly.

 

“Oh,” he sighs, deflating a little. “Of course, you’re both thieves. Did you help her rob my mother’s office? Have you already sold all that jewelry? Probably wasn’t worth much.”

 

“No,” Snow says quickly. “No, I didn’t. Well, I don’t have all of it on me, obviously, but I have…” She reaches into the little pocket of her candy striper apron and pulls out a ring. It’s a small thing, probably worth almost nothing compared to the things Emma has hidden away, with a square, green gemstone in the center. David looks from it to Snow’s face and back. When he goes to reach for it, delicately, Snow pulls it back just barely. He raises an eyebrow at her.

 

“Look, it’s not worth anything,” he bites. “You can keep the rest, I don’t care. Just give me that ring back.”

 

“I will,” Snow assures him, radiating a surprising calm. “But, first, we need you to answer some questions.”

 

“Sure, fine,” David huffs, his shoulders bouncing up and down in anxious approximation of a shrug. “What do you want to know?”

 

“Do you know George Spencer?”

 

By the look on David’s face, Emma thinks it’s going to be a longer answer than Snow bargained for.


	2. Chapter Two

David goes inside to talk with his mother and tells them to wait for him in the hospital cafeteria. Snow keeps the ring as leverage, slipping it back into the apron pocket. Although, Emma considers, it won't do them much good if David's snuck off to call the cops. In fact, it's pretty much the only proof he has of their criminal actions from the night before. Still, they find the cafeteria and Snow buys a fruit salad while Emma gives in to the grumble in her stomach and buys a flimsy looking cheeseburger.

"What are you doing?" Emma asks. Snow has carefully plucked all of the apple slices from the container and set them aside, but Emma is more interested in the urgent way she's typing on her phone. Emma's phone isn't even getting any bars in here.

"Red and I have been friends for a while," Snow explains. The women had never mentioned it, but Emma had figured as much over the week she'd spent working with them. "Sometimes we work together, but usually we do our own thing. She customized my phone, though, so I have a way of contacting her."

Emma reaches forward, placing her hand over Snow's phone and pressing it down onto the table. Snow raises an eyebrow.

"Are you sure we should be involving anyone else in this?" Emma asks.

"Red's already involved, remember?" Snow says, slipping the phone from beneath Emma's palm. "We all helped the Spencers steal from Ruth."

"We don't even know what David is going to tell us," Emma hisses, glancing around furtively to make sure no one is paying them any attention. "It could be nothing."

Snow tilts her head to the side, a dry look on her face that reminds Emma she's not the conman in this situation. "You saw his face. Do you really think it's nothing?"

Emma purses her lips and doesn't respond. She's a gifted liar, but knows better than to try to snow the snowman - no pun intended. The other woman returns her attention to her phone and finishes tapping out whatever kind of - most likely coded - message it takes to get Red's attention.

Emma's stomach growls again, but the nearly untouched cheeseburger suddenly seems entirely unappetizing.

David joins them about ten minutes later, bypassing the food all together before taking his seat. He glances questioningly at the discarded apple slices in front of Snow, but she only stares him down without offering an explanation.

"How's your mother?" She asks eventually, though, voice soft. David seems surprised at the question, confusion furrowing his brow, but shrugs.

"The same," he says, a desolation to his tone. Emma is sure the doctor's have been candid with him by this point, if his mother's illness is as far along as her research made it seem. He takes on a sudden quality of hope, though, that gives Emma whiplash. "The doctor's are talking about a new treatment, though. She's not giving up yet."

Snow's face echoes David's look of hope and Emma frowns at them both. She decides it might be best to pull them all away from the topic. They have a bigger fish to fry, first.

"What do you know about George Spencer?" Emma asks, not harshly, but it's enough to break the spell. David's lips tug downward into a frown and she watches him closely, looking for a lie. He's silent for a long time, but Emma can tell it's not that he's stalling. He simply doesn't know how to begin. So, they give him time to gather his thoughts.

"George is my biological father," he says finally, stumbling uncomfortably over the word "biological". Emma isn't necessarily surprised - he does look _exactly_ like George's son -, but she's certainly confused. She doesn't get the chance to press further before David continues on his own, "I only found out recently, when my mother got sick. She wanted to get in contact with my brother, James, and she told me about him."

Snow's hand reaches forward suddenly, towards where David's rests on the table, but it falls short. The heel of her hand hits the table with a _thud_ , her short nails tapping out a rhythm against the plastic top, as if to hide the movement.

"What happened?" She asks, either oblivious to or flat out ignoring Emma's eyes on the side of her face.

"My father, my _actual_ father," David starts, his emphasis assuring them that there are no lingering sympathies for the man who makes up half of his DNA. No, the man who raised him, that's who he considers family. "He was a drunk, I know that. He tried his best for us, really, but in the end..."

Emma remembers the photo that the newspaper had run alongside the article. She doesn't need David to explain what he means.

"Back when my mother met George, my father had had one of his relapses and pushed her away," he continues, taking on the somber tone of someone retelling a sad story that hadn't happened to them. "George had been married at the time, I guess, but they had some sort of passing fling anyway."

"I'm guessing your mother got pregnant with twins sometime during that period," Emma offers. David nods, he reaches over and plucks up one of the apple slices and snaps it neatly in two between his fingers. He doesn't eat either one, but stares down at the twin chunks.

"Yeah, she had me and James," he nods. "My mother was diagnosed with Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease about five years ago. Over the past few months, her body has stopped reacting to medication. Her doctors have been trying new things, just trying to slow it, but they told her the odds. She decided she wanted to meet James and that's when she told me about him."

"Does James know?" Emma asks, her head tilting to the side to study David. He drops the apple chunks onto the table and shrugs, wiping the juice from them on an unused napkin.

"We tried to contact him, but we hit a lot of walls. Eventually, George got in contact with us and made it clear we were unwelcome in his son's life." Here David takes on a bit of a sneer, his lip curling in distaste. He glares down at the napkin, crumpled between his hands. "Here my mother is, convinced she's dying, and the old bastard won't even let her speak with her son."

"How did the custody get split the way it did?" Snow asks. "Most courts won't split custody with one child to each parent that way."

David snorts. "You think they made it to the courts? No, Spencer would have decimated my mother in court. She had nothing back then, no money or support. So, she compromised. The Spencers had been having trouble conceiving, George's wife was sick. He had a contract written up, he'd keep one child to be raised as his own and my mother would keep the other. In exchange, he would give her a one-time payment of child support."

"Hush money," Emma clarifies. David nods solemnly. It might be easy to villainize Ruth for the situation, Emma considers, and the woman certainly isn't blameless. But, David's right. Spencer would have decimated her in court, taken her dignity, her marriage, any savings she might have, and most likely both children. She'd taken the option she thought was best, used the money to put herself in a better situation, and given David the best life she could.

Making the best decision possible for your child? Emma could hardly fault anyone for it.

"What would he have wanted to steal from your mother?" Emma asks after a moment. That's the million dollar question. What could be so important to a man who can destroy anyone that he'd turn to a group of thieves.

"I'm not sure," he sighs. "My mother won't tell me. She told me to go to her office and copy her hard drive before it gets turned over to the company and wiped completely, but wouldn't tell me what was so important. I hadn't really expected to catch a robbery in progress."

He turns a dark look in Snow's direction, but the woman is already distracted and unfazed by the negative attention. She's returning to tapping out quick messages on her phone screen. "Well, whatever it was your mother wanted, it's not going to be there anymore."

"What do you mean?" David asks, confusion taking the annoyance from his frown. "The company won't have wiped it yet."

"No," Snow says, nodding her head in agreement. She doesn't look up from her phone. "But, we did."

-/-

They regroup at the warehouse. It's possibly a bad idea, but it's the only neutral territory they have and they're reasonably sure George Spencer is finished with them. If he's smart, there's absolutely no trail connecting him to the warehouse or any of them. They'd been given instructions to return to their normal lives, forget about each other and the Spencers altogether. Emma hadn't really questioned it, mostly because she wanted nothing more than to do exactly that.

The universe had a different plan, apparently.

Red is sort of pacing in front of the warehouse when the three of them get there, but it's such an oddly nonchalant moving it hardly seems like pacing. There's a tension in her shoulders, though, that belies the anxiety underneath. Killian is leaning back against the rippled metal wall, eyes dragging over them as they walk up. He hones in on David and Emma notices when his eyes flick to the scar on his chin, the bruises on his knuckles. She sees the exact moment it clicks.

"Not James Spencer, I take it," he drawls and David's steps falter. Red stops pacing and glances over at them, her eyes landing on David as well. She'd been prepared for this, Emma knows Snow told her as much as she could over their messages, but it's still a surprise.

"Not a lawyer," David counters, pulling a smirk from Killian. Emma isn't really interested in watching a bravado show down. Killian had bested David in that elevator, but David had definitely gotten a few good swings in. Going up against Killian, that meant he was good. They could hash it out later, if they really needed to.

"This is David Nolan," Emma says shortly, glancing at Killian and then over to Red. "What's he doing here? Wait, are you two-?"

She cuts herself off. Mostly because it's none of her business, but also because she definitely shouldn't care.

Red answers anyway, almost immediately. "No."

"You needn't be so quick about it, darling," Killian gripes. Red ignores him, pivoting to tug the warehouse door open. It yields under her sharp tug, metal scraping against metal as it opens. The group follows her inside relatively easily. David seems hesitant, trailing at the back, but Snow sticks by him and encourages him silently.

"Jones showed up on his own," Red explains. The boots she's wearing today have a high, thin heel that clicks against the cement floor. Emma looks over at Killian, walking a foot or so beside her, and frowns.

"Haven't any of you noticed that we haven't been paid?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. David gives a grunt of annoyance behind them, but it's Snow that responds.

"We haven't?" She asks, voice a little higher with the surprise. Honestly, Emma had been so caught up with looking into Ruth Nolan that she had just assumed Spencer had wired her the money. She's guessing Snow's excuse was similar.

"Looks like someone packed up in a hurry," Red calls. She's in the center of the warehouse now, quicker than all of them even in her heels.

Emma glances around and realizes she's right. The warehouse is nearly empty now. There hadn't been a lot inside of it to begin with, but the desk is cleared away, along with all of the electronics that had shown up for the planning stage. Where there had been blueprints and security system breakdowns hanging from walls, there's only empty space and unremoved tape. There had been a large dry erase board in the center of the room, a breakdown of the safe model and manufacturer on it for Emma to learn, but all that's left is a lone green marker discarded on the floor.

The screens still hang from their spot on the far wall, though.

Killian whistles at the sight and Emma comments, "Weird."

Later, she'll blame the lack of sleep. For her poor judgement, for not checking her bank account, for going to the hospital in the first place. For missing the obvious.

"So, what exactly are we doing here?" Red asks finally, leaning against the wall next to the computer screens now that there's nowhere else to sit. Snow urges David forward and he gives his whole piece again. It's a watered down version, Emma notices. He may be regretting giving her and Snow as much detail as he had initially.

"And what are we supposed to do with this information?" Killian asks once he's done, a bored tone to his voice that makes Emma frowns. He's all tousled and leather again, burgundy suit and neat hair abandoned on that rooftop, and he's adopted a relaxed stance.

He's trying for disinterested and succeeding, really, being the world class liar that he is. But, Emma remembers how he'd acted yesterday after taking a literal leap of faith with her. All "what are we gonna do?" As if they could actually _do_ anything, as if they had more control over the world than just what they stole from it.

Killian _cares_ , Emma is sure, even if he doesn't want anyone to know it. He'd played his hand with her, though, following her down the street. He was the reason she'd bothered to look into Ruth Nolan again, after all.

She can't help but echo his question in her mind, though. Falsified lack of interest aside, he has a point. They're here, in an empty warehouse with the twin of a man whose father stiffed them, and all they have is one honest man's story and a bunch of thieves with empty bank accounts.

"We're going to steal it back," Snow says, all confidence and leadership. It makes Emma envy her a little, her chin high and shoulders stiff, as though she'll hear no complaint. Except for the fact that her idea is insane.

"I'm sorry?" Red asks, pushing off the wall and looking at Snow as though she's grown a second head. Even David has turned a wide-eyed gaze on her. There's something like admiration in it, though. "Snow, look, you know I'll help you with anything, but don't you think that's a bit much?"

"We stole it the first time, didn't we?" Snow asks, looking at each of them in turn. Emma can understand how people fall for her ridiculous characters if she sells it this well. Even Killian straightens under her gaze. "Who else could get it back for him?"

"Snow," Emma starts slowly. She's not sure exactly what her argument will be, she doubts telling the woman she's batshit crazy will help matters. Snow's gaze lands on her and Emma tenses, shoulders stiffening as she tries to exude a confidence to match the other woman's. "We don't even know _what_ we stole. Not really."

"Red," Snow says, attention snapping to Red. "You made a copy of the file before you sent it to James, didn't you?"

"I promised not to," Red hedges. "That would be wrong." Snow tilts her head, eyebrow raising, and Red smirks.

"Let me see your copy," Snow commands, not unkindly. Red is already pulling her messenger bag from her shoulder and setting it on the ground. She liberates her laptop from within and begins hooking it up to the screens. Emma turns her attention to Killian, who's been surprisingly silent this whole time.

"You choose now to finally stop talking," she accuses. Killian's gaze is already on her, but it focuses in now. He doesn't smirk or try to meet her barb. He steps towards her, voice low as if it's meant only for her. Emma frowns, studying the storm brewing in his eyes, a dark grey rolling over the blue like a storm over the sea.

"It's been a long time since I did the right thing, Swan," he offers quietly. "I might like to know if I'm still capable."

Something in Emma's chest hurts. It might be a warning, but it feels more like guilt. She glances over her shoulder at David who is muttering with Snow and Red as they crowd around her laptop. The screens mirror her laptop as it goes through the boot up sequences.

"This is crazy," she hisses to Killian. A wry grin comes over his features, tight lipped and toothless, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Last night, we leapt from a building with a cord meant for one," he reminds her. "I think we've officially ticked the 'crazy' box, love."

It's a fair point, but that doesn't mean she has to like it. Emma opens her mouth to argue, Killian's eyebrows even go up like he's going to take pleasure in the debate, but Red's voice cuts her off.

"Here it is," she calls. A file opens on the screens, large as it cuts across all six of them to create one large screen. Emma frowns and steps towards it. It's a PDF file of scans, CONTRACT OF CUSTODY written in large, bold capital letters at the top.

"Oh," Snow gasps.

"It's the custody contract," Emma points out, albeit needlessly, as her eyes scan the worn print. It's been enhanced by the scanner, but there are clear lines of wear in the paper. "Ruth made digital copies. She must have been planning to make them public, to appeal for time with her son. That's why Spencer wanted them."

"Snow, we don't even need to steal the contract back," Red comments, looking up from the laptop balanced precariously on one palm. "This is all Ruth needed. As long as she still has a copy of the original, dated files, George can't dispute it."

"Can you put them on a drive for David?" Snow asks. Red nods and sets the computer down on the concrete, reaching for her messenger bag. She's digging through it, looking for a spare USB, when the alert lights up her screen. The six screens light up with it, a red flashing warning of spyware.

"Shit," Red shouts, diving for the laptop. She yanks the connections to the screens from it unceremoniously, but even Emma knows the damage is done. The computer had been connected for more than long enough for the hack. Red is typing furiously, the screens blinking with static now that the connection has been severed.

"What's going on?" Killian barks. Red doesn't answer, but she doesn't need to. One at a time, the screens blink to life until they form a full picture. George Spencer stares down at them, a threatening grin on his face. It's lopsided and harsh, nothing like his public persona.

"Hello, Red," he greets, voice booming over speakers that were apparently also left behind. It had all been a trap and they, four of the most clever people in the world, hadn't even seen it coming. "Presumably the rest of you are there as well. I do wish we'd had time to install cameras, but Mr. Jones came calling earlier than we'd expected."

Killian bristles, but Emma glances around to confirm the lack of cameras. She can't see anything, she'll have to take George's word for it. He tsks, the sound harsh over the speakers.

"Ah well, we make do. Plans rarely do go they way they're meant to, I'm sure the four of you know all about that," he chuckles. Emma wishes she'd punched him in the face when she had the chance. "Now, on the matter at hand. As I'm sure you're well aware by this point, I did not pay you. I know, I'm terribly sorry, but it simply couldn't be helped."

There's a sadistic malice in his voice. He's enjoying this.

"The thing is, and I'm sure Red can attest to this, wire transfers leave a trail. Even money, in it's most simple form, can cause quite the fuss." Here George sighs, as though he really is feeling their plight. He shakes his head, but his grin is all amusement and smugness. He feels he's won, beaten the world's best thieves, and he's basking in it. "I can't really be tied back to such shady company. As it goes, you'll have to understand my reasoning."

"Bastard," Emma growls, glaring into the screen as if she can actually kill George with her gaze all the way from here. He can stiff them, sure, but they can make his life a living hell, too. Not just a bastard, Emma thinks, but a stupid one.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," George continues. "How can I keep you from talking to the press about my little escapade into the criminal underworld? Well, I can't, really. But I did do my research on each of you before approaching you, and I am quite a thorough researcher. Or, at least, I have people that are."

The bottom screen on the far right leaves behind the small portion of George it displays and replaces him with the bright white of a document. It has the seal of a law enforcement agency Emma doesn't recognize, _Sheriff's Department_ at the top with a county name she's never heard of. It must be a small town. It's a wanted poster, she realizes, with a picture of Red dead center. She's younger, high school or college aged maybe. There's no color in her hair, but her lips are the same shade of bright red. It looks like a school photo. The name underneath is Ruby Lucas.

"Ms. Lucas, we'll start with you if that's alright," George continues, a chummy grin on his face. Red - Ruby, Emma supposes - has barely glanced up from her computer for most of his monologue, but jerks to alertness at the sound of her name. "What is that pesky charge you're on the run from again? Homicide, right. You're poor boyfriend. Murder has no statute of limitations, you know?"

Red is staring wide eyed at the screen with her wanted ad on it, but George leaves no time for recovery. The bottom middle screen goes out now, lighting up with another file. Killian this time, recognizable despite the youth on his face and neatness to him. His eyes are bright and his face is clean-shaven, making it appear rounder and younger. His isn't a wanted poster, though, despite the somberness of his photo. It's a government file.

"Lieutenant Killian Jones," George booms, a full on grin overtaking his features by now. Emma doesn't know if he's this sadistic or just a sociopath. Killian has gone tense next to her, his eyes on the screens as a muscle ticks in his jaw. "Quite the golden boy you were in your day, weren't you? Of course, back then your brother was alive. Running from your duty with the Royal Navy is no way to deal with your grief, though." George tsks and Emma's fist clenches at the sound.

It doesn't end there, Emma's stomach tightening as her own photo overtakes the bottom left. The mugshot is hardly a good look, smeared makeup and slept on hair, but it's her eyes. The desolation and defeat there causes an ache in her chest and Emma has to look away. She focuses on a scuff in the leather of Killian's jacket. She doesn't need to hear whatever George has to say, but she can't block it out either.

Red is still typing furiously, Emma can't be sure what she's trying to do. There must be a reason they're all still standing here. Is it shock? Horror? Disbelief? Either way, her feet are glued to the cement beneath her and it seems everyone else is similarly affected.

"Ah, yes, Miss Swan, the self-proclaimed best thief in the world, isn't it?" George mocks. Emma refuses to look up, eyes glued to the flaw in Killian's jacket. She feels his eyes slide to her, but ignores him as well. "Such a cute name, Swan. Your first adoptive family, wasn't it?" He makes a show of looking down, as if the barb hadn't been intentional. "Oh, no, I'm sorry. Your _only_ adoptive family. They gave you back though, how terribly sad."

Emma wants to pretend it doesn't still sting, that she's past the pain of never being enough, no matter how hard her tiny self tried. It doesn't stop the ache in her chest from expanding. If this is the worst George has to say, though, she'll come out of this relatively unscathed.

Of course, he continues, "I guess that explains the mile long list of offenses during your youth, doesn't it? You got terribly good at your craft from a young age. That stint in prison, though, - thirteen months, was it? That must have been rough. All because your team left you behind to take the fall. All while you were- well, I'll let you have some of your secrets. My, my, you do have some bad luck."

Emma makes the mistake of glancing up. She doesn't know how he even knows her old team, but there they are - Neal, Lily, and August. Grainy security footage or their own mugshots, the three of them stare down at her from beside her own picture on the single screen. The photos linger, but George is already moving on. Coming for Snow, who he clearly sees as the big prey of the four of them.

"Snow White," he chuckles, flashing a grin that's all teeth. Emma is reminded of the grinning cat from Alice in Wonderland, showing up to cause trouble with his unsettling smile. _Not a cat_ , Emma thinks as she continues to study George's image, _a hyena_. "Choosing a fairytale princess as your alias? Now, that's inspired, my dear. Although, I don't believe Snow White was on the run from her stepmother for committing treason and patricide."

A file flashes up, taking up the top right screen and covering George's ear, but leaving his face over the remaining screens. It's Snow, but Emma can only tell because it wouldn't be up there otherwise. Another wanted ad, much like Red's, but the girl in the picture is much younger, barely a teenager. The insignia is for a country Emma's never heard of. _Crown Princess Mary Margaret_ , is scrawled across the top.

Weirdly enough, it kind of makes sense to Emma.

"Well then," George claps his hands together and each of the four screens blink out, reforming his image. "As you can see, trying to force my hand on the matter of pay or reporting this little mess to the police will only end poorly for you. If I have all of this, you can imagine what other resources I have at my disposal."

This was his play all along. He knew exactly who each of them were before he ever got in bed with them. And they had had no idea what they'd been chosen for. He didn't need a team that could be discrete, he needed a team whose past he could exploit.

He'd chosen them well, Emma had known that from the start. Not for their skills, as she had assumed, but for their secrets.

George doesn't leave them with any ominous parting words. After his demonstration, he doesn't need to. He'd sucker punched them. The screens freeze on his image as the feed cuts out before blinking out one by one. No one says anything, too struck by being laid bare and rubbed raw for the group. They're on equal footing down here at rock bottom.

Red stands up suddenly, the sound of her fingers moving over the keyboard having halted, and lifts her computer above her head. With more strength than Emma had expected her to possess, she throws the computer down onto the concrete. The glass of the screen splits, blinking a few times before the display dies, and the plastic covering splinters and skitters over the floor in shards of various sizes.

"Trace that, you sick bastard," she growls, glaring down at the useless laptop. It startles the rest of them out of their frozen states and Emma is reminded of David Nolan, the only one among them without a rotten past of his own.

"What the bloody hell just happened?" Killian barks, his accent thickening at the anger seething inside of him.

"We got played," Emma says, earning a dark look from him. It's the obvious answer, sure, but is there another explanation? "George didn't want us because we're the best, he wanted us because we're the dirtiest."

"We can't stay here," Snow says, her voice small and shaky, lacking her usual brand of authority. An actual royal. At least now Emma understands where Snow gets her leadership skills and easy authority from.

"I know a place," Red says, just as hesitantly. Emma realizes none of them are making eye contact with one another.

-/-

She takes them to a bar on the edge of Brooklyn. It's almost like an optical illusion, it's so out of the way. It's not there unless you're staring straight at it. From the sides it fades into the brick buildings around it, faded red stones blending with the rest of the street. Inside, the walls are wood panelled and the atmosphere makes it feel as though they've stepped into a 90's cop movie. A low, indie tune plays from a surprisingly high tech jukebox on the far wall.

There still hasn't been much conversation, the vague passage of direction from Red to lead them here notwithstanding. They weren't just betrayed and used, they were outsmarted. For a thief, that's the worst offense there is.

Red leads them to a table in the back corner, away from the group lining the bar and the stragglers occupying tables. After a few minutes, the bartender rounds the bar and beelines for their table. She doesn't look particularly friendly, a pinch in her brow as she appears to hone in on Red.

"Ruby," she greets, a hard edge to her voice as her eyes shoot furtively over the rest of the sullen group. Emma jolts at the reminder of Red's real name. "What's going on?"

Red offers her an apologetic grimace, but doesn't explain. "Can we get drinks?"

The woman huffs, shooting a disapproving look around the table. Her eyes land on Snow and she gives a small, curt nod of acknowledgement which is returned. After making sure she's imposed her dislike for the situation on each person, she takes their drink orders.

"Thanks, Mulan," Red offers gently, apology in her tone, before the woman can leave the table. The bartender, Mulan, meets her eye and softens slightly, offering a delayed nod in response and heading back towards the bar.

She returns with a tray of drinks; beer for David, vodka tonics for Red and Snow, and rum for Emma and Killian. Snow's drink has a bright green lime wedge floating within the ice, but Red's has two cherries with their stems sticking out from between the cubes. It's an unusual way to make the drink and Emma figures it's Red's preference, a detail she hadn't specified, but that Mulan had known to add anyway.

"It's more complicated than he made it sound," Red says, voice timid and even lower than her usual rough tone. It's the first thing anyone's said since they left the warehouse - directions and drink orders aside - and now everyone's eyes are on Red. The woman herself seems to have found something very interesting in her glass to occupy her gaze.

"I'm sure it is," David says, surprising Emma. Red's gaze shifts, turning her head to stare David down.

"How?" She asks. There's a defensiveness in her tone that Emma immediately recognizes. "How do you know?"

It's a fair question. David doesn't know her, doesn't know any of them. The most he knows about them is that they're criminals - criminals who were hired to steal from his dying mother, no less - and that doesn't encourage a lot of faith. Emma isn't sure why he didn't cut and run at the warehouse and that makes her wary of him.

"George wouldn't have used it against you if it was," David offers, shrugging as he tips his bottle upwards and takes a swig of the beer. It leaves a ring on the table and when he sets the beer back down, it's just slightly to the right of it. "He didn't tell you those things to get under your skin. Sure, it was an added bonus, but he had two reasons for digging up your worst demons."

"And what's that, mate?" Killian asks. There's a bite to it, but mostly he just sounds tired. Emma wonders if he slept any more than she did after their heist.

"To keep you on a leash, make sure you won't be spilling his secrets to anyone who can do something about it," David explains. "And to make you doubt each other."

Emma considers this. Bringing all of that up, it had hurt them each, sure. There's no doubt in her mind that George took a special kind of pleasure in knowing he'd caused it. Those stories hadn't just been painful recounts of their histories, though. They'd been _vague_ recounts, just vague enough to make anything sound worse than it was.

She glances around the table at the other occupants. She'd already known they were thieves, but does knowing the titles that had started it all for each of them - murderer, traitor, defector -, does it really make a difference?

"I don't doubt any of you," Snow speaks up, clear and certain, before Emma can. There's no resounding shouts of agreement or emphatic nodding, but it's there nonetheless. They may not have completely trusted each other to begin with, but nothing George has done has made it any worse.

He'd given them the tools to destroy each other and all he accomplished was to bring them closer.

"Just how well do you actually know George?" Emma asks, directing her question at David. His eyes meet hers, light blue but gentle. They're not the piercing sea-color of Killian's or the dark and stormy midnight blue of George's. These are Ruth Nolan's eyes, she realizes, the same as James'.

"I've done my fair share of retconning," he offers. Without going into detail, he shifts the subject. "Red, what did you do on your computer?"

Red startles at the attention, caught mid sip. She swallows, catches one of the cherries between her teeth and pops it from it's stem, chewing thoughtfully. "I figured he was cloning my laptop so I did an immediate wipe - he might have still got some stuff, but no way he got everything - and then released one of my own viruses onto it. It doesn't matter what he got now, the clone will be infected the same way mine was."

"Smart," Emma comments, a smirk quirking one corner of her lips up. Red returns it with a grand, self-satisfied grin.

"So, what do we do now?" David asks. Emma notices the way Snow's eyes snap to David at the inclusive language. She raises an eyebrow herself, but David seems either entirely unaffected by or unaware of the attention.

"We scatter," Snow answers. Her voice waivers just slightly and it's the first time Emma's ever heard it do that.

"What?" Killian asks, the word tinged with more surprise than disagreement. "We just run and let George get away with this?"

"Snow's right," Emma says, turning her head to look at him. He raises an eyebrow at her. "Look, what do you do when a job goes bad? You run. If you stick around you get caught. This is just like any job that's gone south. We've been made and now we need to go."

This is how they work. There is no lingering or standing around and waiting to be caught. Even after a good job, you don't stick around with your stolen goods just to see what might happen. They all know how this goes. Emma meets Killian's gaze, focused solely on her, and can only hold it for a moment. She tips back the rest of her glass and it burns down her throat.

"I don't think he knew you were there," she says, once the sting of the alcohol has subsided and no one has disagreed with her or Snow. She glances at David so he knows the words are directed at him. "You're best bet is just to go back to your life. Don't let Spencer take that from you without even trying."

David looks away from her, dragging his finger through the condensation left behind by his beer bottle. Snow frowns, her hand moving to her lap and shuffling around. She's still clad in her candy striper uniform. Their meeting at the hospital feels like days ago, could it really have only been hours?

"Here," she offers quietly, the words clearly meant for David. Emma turns her eyes away, in an attempt to give them privacy, but can see Snow raise her hand from her peripheral vision. The jade stone of the ring glints beneath the dim bar lights. "This belongs to you."

David takes it from her fingers gently, a beat of silence before Snow lets it go and the ring is back in David's possession. Gently, he says, "Thanks. You can keep the rest."

Snow doesn't refuse and the table has gone chillingly silent. The bar around them moves on, men at the bar shout orders at Mulan while a high pitched singer laments his tortured love life from the jukebox. Killian swallows down the rest of his rum, the sound of the empty glass against the table startling Emma out of her reverie.

It feels like an end to her.

"Well," she says, pressing her palms flat against the table and pushing herself upwards. "Not that it hasn't been a blast, but we did say it was a one time performance."

She tugs the edges of her leather jacket around herself and zips it up to her throat, more of a comfort than to combat the moderate weather outside. She makes it to the sidewalk, is debating taking a cab or allowing the walk to clear her mind, when a gentle hand wraps around her wrist.

"Emma," Killian says, nearly a murmur, as he tugs at her arm. She concedes, turning to face him. "Do you really think running is the best move here?"

Annoyance flares warm in her chest, but the way he's looking at her halts it. It's not questioning her decision, she realizes. He wants to be reassured, he wants to know that they aren't just taking the easy way out because it's easy. Killian needs to know there is nothing else for them to do.

"George has us backed into a corner, Killian," Emma tells him, sure of the decision they've made. She'd been willing to help David when she'd heard his and Ruth's story, but now there's too much risk involved. They'd never manage it, as much as it hurts her pride and her morals. Trying to help David now would only cause more harm. "We have no other choice."

"You wanted to help him," he points out, startling Emma with how close he's hit to her own thoughts. There's a grin on his face now, though, a touch of smugness to it. "And you say we aren't the good guys."

She rolls her eyes, gently extricating her wrist from his grip, and turns to leave. Killian calls out, "Where are you gonna go?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Emma teases, turning back towards him. He takes a step forward, closing the distance she'd just put between them. A frown pinches his features as he looks down at her.

"Perhaps I would," he says quietly. He smells like rum and some sort of salt water based cologne, a not entirely unappealing scent. She's certain he'd taste like the same cheap rum still lingering on her tongue, but she wonders if he might also taste like the ocean.

"Try and find me," she says. It's meant to be light and joking, but comes out a little breathless, a little rough. It's only been a few weeks, but Emma hadn't realized how tired she was of being alone. Here Killian is, asking if he can be alone with her without actually saying so and, despite it all, she almost wants to say yes.

That doesn't mean she has to make it easy on him.

She turns away from him once more, this time heading down the street without him pulling her back. Before she's out of hearing range, he calls out, "Perhaps I will."

Emma doesn't bother fighting the grin. "Good."

-/-

She doesn't have a family by the narrowest definition of the term. The people who shared her blood left her before she was even old enough to know them, abandoned on the side of the road, unwanted. She spent years bouncing around the foster system. Even then, it was hard to feel wanted in houses full of kids with haried parents who'd ship you back for the smallest infraction.

When she was seventeen, Emma ran away. She'd entertained the idea for a few years, just getting away and taking care of herself the way she'd always done. Rationally, she knew it wouldn't be that simple and that was enough to keep the idea at bay for a while. When she finally did run away, that's when she met Neal and - as a result - August and Lily. The rest is a past Emma prefers to leave where it belongs.

But, before all of that, there was Ingrid. Emma spent two years, between fourteen and sixteen, with Ingrid. She'd been a foster mother to a few other children, but they all left for one thing or another - new families, disciplinary reasons - and eventually it was just Emma and Ingrid. Ingrid had been floating the idea of adoption, which made Emma ecstatic, but the state was giving them push back.

Then, Ingrid's sister died and suddenly she was moving to Greenland to take care of her two newly-orphaned nieces. The adoption paperwork would never go through in time and, as a ward of the state, Ingrid couldn't just pack Emma up and move her to another country. She could hardly blame Ingrid for leaving her behind, but that was when she decided she wasn't going back to the system.

She hasn't seen Ingrid in years, but the woman had left her with an address and the promise that if Emma ever needed her she would be there. So, Emma flies to Greenland with a decade old address and decides to find out if that's true.

A grinning redhead with long hair tied into braids answers the door and Emma almost turns and runs. She stops herself, though, forcing out the question, "Hi, does Ingrid Fisher live here?"

"Oh," the woman says, grin somehow widening even more as she claps her hands together. "Yes, she does! I'll get her, one sec."

In the split second before the door closes, Emma hears the woman cry out "Aunt Ingrid, it's for you!" Then, suddenly, she is left standing on the large porch, staring out over the beautiful Greenland summer. It's chilly, like spring is just setting in despite the late summer month, but the sky is nearly cloudless and bluer than Emma's ever seen it in New York. She tugs her coat, a black pea coat she swapped her signature red leather out for, tighter around her and fastens a few buttons.

She doesn't know exactly what she's doing here, in this unfamiliar country with a rental car full of the most important things from her apartment. All she could think was that she needed to get out of town, she needed to lay low. The past had been swirling around her in the hours it took to plan her escape and the only place she could think of was with Ingrid.

Emma is feeling like she's seventeen again and it's not some feel-good Zac Efron movie.

The door opens again and Emma turns back towards it, quicker than she intends as her ankle nearly gives out beneath her. She feels sloppy, heavy and out of place, nothing like the confident and agile thief she's become. For her part, the woman in the doorway now is definitely Ingrid. A little older now - Emma reminds herself it's been over a decade - but unmistakable with her white-blonde hair and kind eyes.

She's trying to find the words, the way to explain her presence. She's fretting over the realization that Ingrid may not even remember her when the woman finally speaks. Little more than breathing out the word "Emma."

Emma nearly sobs with relief. Her eyes prickle with the warning of incoming tears and Ingrid crosses the threshold to join her on the wooden slats of the porch. Her hands seek out Emma's, fingers thin where they wrap around Emma's own shaking digits. She can't say if it's from the cold or Ingrid's presence. Either way, Ingrid comments idly, releasing one of Emma's hands to rest her own on Emma's cheek, "You'll freeze out here, come inside."

Emma doesn't protest as Ingrid leads her through the doorway into a long hallway. The house is beautiful, just a touch over the line of what could be considered modest. Ingrid's family had money, Emma remembers, but Ingrid had more or less cut herself off from it. Taking care of her nieces after their parents death was, as far as Emma knew, the first contact she'd had with the family since she was a young woman. Ingrid had barely spoken of her family and never told Emma what had caused the rift.

Taking care of her dead sister's daughters was Ingrid's way of repenting, Emma had always assumed.

"Here, go on and hang your coat there," Ingrid says, indicating a ornately carved coat rack next to the door. "There's a fire burning in the living room and I'll make us some hot cocoa, alright?"

Emma does as she's told, unfastening the buttons on her coat and hanging it beside one that is strikingly similar, except in an icy blue color. Ingrid brings her down the hall where it branches into a kitchen, a half wall separating it from a cozy looking sitting room. A fire burns in the hearth, filling the house with the scent of pine.

It isn't necessarily cold enough outside to warrant such a blazing inferno, but it gives the place a homey feeling. Or maybe that's just Ingrid. The woman herself stands at the sink, filling a kettle with water before placing it on the stove. Emma almost expects it to light with an actual flame, a rustic old thing, but it has a glass surface with four identical spirals. One begins to glow orange as Ingrid places the kettle on top of it.

"So," Ingrid says, taking a seat at the kitchen table and motioning for Emma to do the same. Once she has, Ingrid continues, "Don't think I'm not happy to see you again, I've always hoped you'd come visit."

"You're wondering why it took me twelve years," Emma surmises. Ingrid blinks, a slow smile curling her lips upwards.

"And as blunt as ever, I see," she comments, a chuckle in the words. Emma smiles as well, looking down at her hands on the table. She'd painted her nails the day before the heist, a dark blue, and it's already chipping away. She helps the effort, scraping one thumb nail across the other.

"After you left," she starts, halting only for a moment at the way Ingrid's face falls. "I know you had to, it's okay. But, once you were gone, I ran away. The system was sucking me dry, I had to get out of it. So, I ran and I did some stuff to keep myself afloat, trusted some people I shouldn't have. I ended up in prison for a few months."

Ingrid tilts her head, a sympathetic frown tugging at her features. The expression accentuates the wrinkles forming around her eyes, the beginning shallowness of her cheeks. It reminds Emma that time has passed, that she's different now. Ingrid must be, too.

Regardless, she continues, a sigh falling from her lips as she ducks her head once more, "I didn't want to disappoint you."

Ingrid reaches forward, tugging one of Emma's hands from the other and intertwining their fingers. Dark blue flakes litter the table in front of Emma.

"My darling, Emma," Ingrid sighs. "You could never disappoint me."

Emma can't help the smile that takes over her face, the tears that form and gather in the corner of her eyes before she reaches up with her free hand and dabs them away. She considers telling Ingrid the rest, all of it. How she's still in the game, how she got played, how she let herself get foolishly attached again. The kettle whistles on the stove and Ingrid drops Emma's hand to see to it.

"Why are you here, now?" Ingrid asks, not unkindly, as she pours the water into mugs. "What's changed?"

Emma considers the question for a minute, still unsure whether to tell Ingrid as much of the truth as she can. When the theft had been for her survival, of course Ingrid wouldn't judge her for that. But this? Emma's never felt shame or discomfort about what she does or how well she does it, but sitting in Ingrid's warm kitchen that smells of pine, chocolate powder, and the lavender buds sitting in the window…

Ingrid sets a mug down in front of Emma and returns to her own seat. Emma tilts her head and answers, finally, "I've just been thinking a lot about the past lately."

She doesn't tell Ingrid the details of her sudden departure from New York, but she does tell her about running away - the first time, that is. It's the first time she's told the story aloud since leaving Phoenix, the first time she's admitted all the things she lost in that prison - the last dregs of her innocence, her ability to trust, her son.

"Oh, Emma," Ingrid sighs, sympathetic rather than disappointed, and reaches for her hand. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you."

Emma had tried, right after she'd run away and everything had gone to hell, to blame Ingrid. She'd convinced herself she _should_ hate her for leaving, but had never managed it. It's Emma's own stubbornness and fears that had kept her from seeking Ingrid out all these years. Talking to her now is just as easy as it had been back when she was sixteen.

Eventually, the woman who had answered the door drifts back downstairs and introduces herself as Ingrid's youngest niece, Anna. A remarkably similar looking woman, but with white blonde hair hanging over one shoulder in an intricate braid, follows behind Anna and tells Emma her name is Elsa. Emma doesn't really need the introductions, could have figured these were Ingrid's nieces on her own, but it's nice of them to make her feel welcome.

Beyond visiting, Emma hadn't had a plan. Showing up on Ingrid's doorstep was as far ahead as her mind would let her think. Naturally, Ingrid insists she stays as long as she wants to. Emma can't find it in her to refuse the hospitality. Greenland is chilly, but gorgeous and there's a sense of security sitting in front of Ingrid's warm fire that she hasn't had in years.

-/-

"You actually own an ice cream shop?" Emma laughs, because it feels absurd. Sure, people all over the world own actual ice cream shops. Emma's never met any, but they obviously exist. Except, Greenland is cold even in the summer and the store she's looking at is so incredibly, stereotypically "Mom and Pop"-esque, she can't handle it.

"Oh come on, just because we live in a country made of ice doesn't mean we don't enjoy frozen treats," Elsa smirks. She turns the key in the lock and pushes the door to the store open. A bell tinkles above their heads and Emma has to press her smile into her hand to hide it.

"Cool," she comments from behind her gloved hand. Elsa turns and throws her a dry look once the pun registers in her mind.

Emma spent most of her first two weeks in Greenland staying inside Ingrid's warm and cozy house. She'd caught up with her old foster mother, gotten to know Elsa and Anna, and helped with chores so she didn't feel completely like a freeloader. Eventually, the stir craziness had gotten to her, though, and she'd decided to venture out into the rest of the city.

For the most part, she requires an escort when she goes places. Her Greenlandic is abysmal and her Danish is passable at best. She tries not to assume everyone knows English, though most people are taught it from a young age, and even so most of the signs aren't in English. Elsa and Anna speak amazing English and have no problem mocking Emma's accent when she tries to speak Danish with them.

"So, when does Kristoff come back?" Emma asks, moving around the shop as she trails after Elsa. She knew the women owned the shop, but this is the first time she's visited.

"Soon," Elsa sighs, though it's more playful than actually annoyed. "Anna's becoming unbearable in her missing him. Sometimes she just lays on the couch and stares longingly at the engagement ring."

Emma laughs. "I know. I've seen it."

"I keep reminding her it's not magic," Elsa explains as she hefts a large tub with a label Emma can't read out of a freezer. Emma holds out her hands to take it from her, glad she hadn't taken off her coat yet. Elsa relinquishes the tub into Emma's grasp before ducking inside for another. Her voice takes on an airy quality that Emma knows is meant to be a mockery of her sister's voice. "'Oh, Elsa, I know it's not _magic_ magic, but some things have magical properties, you know what I mean?'"

She reappears, two tubs stacked on top of each other in her arms now. Emma raises an eyebrow at her, but Elsa doesn't even bat an eye at the heavy load or the freezing temperature as she leads Emma back to the front room to deposit the tubs in the display case.

"Honestly, I can't understand how she got so ridiculous," Elsa complains, peeling the lid back off one of the tubs and revealing a chocolate ice cream with fudge chunks mixed in. "'Some things have magical properties'. What does that even mean?"

Emma thinks of Ruth Nolan's ring, the way David had stared at it as though it were more than just a family heirloom. She thinks, unexpectedly, of the way she feels when she's hanging from her rig, stepping over the side of the building and trusting it to keep her from becoming an inconvenient splat on the pavement beneath.

She shrugs. "I think I get what she means."

Elsa glances at Emma with a skeptical look, but doesn't press the issue further. Over the weeks Emma's been in Greenland, Elsa has become almost instantly able to read her moods. She knows when it's okay to ask questions and when it isn't. She's clearly read this as one of those times when she wouldn't get a truthful response anyway.

Emma reaches forward and tugs the lid off of her own barrel of ice cream. It pulls away to reveal a honey colored ice cream within. Elsa sets it into the display slot and changes the subject to explaining the types of ice cream they're serving today.

-/-

She's in Greenland a month and a half before she sees him.

Her Greenlandic and Danish are getting better, her reading comprehension is strong enough now at least that she can go into town by herself without becoming incredibly overwhelmed. The island of Greenland is mostly made of ice, the towns situated around the edges of the landmass. He's standing on the docks, arguing with someone in perfect Danish.

Emma doesn't call out to him, stops mid-step to watch him for a minute before continuing on. She figures she must be projecting. She's been thinking about the botched job a lot, trying to figure out just how she'd let George Spencer get the drop on her. Admittedly, outside of the thought of the job, she'd also been thinking about her last conversation with Killian Jones a lot as well.

"Swan!"

The sound of her name in his warm accent nearly makes her drop her groceries. She freezes, refuses to turn around in case this is it, she's actually losing her fucking mind. But, no, Killian chases after her, circling around her with a gentle hand skimming over the arm wrapped around her bag of groceries. Between her coat and sweater and his leather gloves, she doesn't feel the warmth of him, but the pressure of his palm against her elbow is definitely real.

His grin is nearly blinding when he settles in front of her, blue eyes sparkling in a way that should be impossible on a particularly gray and overcast day. She's sure her jaw is hanging open, words completely lost to her, but she can't seem to make herself move. If only for fear of breaking the illusion.

Killian laughs, a deep rumble in his chest accompanied by a smug smirk at the way she's staring at him. He teases, "Surprised to see me?"

"You found me," Emma hears herself say, the words nearly a whisper that come out on a white puff of breath. Her voice has apparently completely removed itself from her brain, leaving it frozen and useless in her skull.

"Aye," Killian says, matching her tone as he lifts his hand to scratch behind his ear. "It took some work, but I hope I'm not intruding. You did say-"

"I know," Emma interjects, nodding so quickly it makes her vision swim. Apparently her time spent learning Danish has completely stripped her of her ability to have a civilized conversation in English. "I remember."

The smile returns to Killian's face and Emma isn't sure exactly what about her fragmented sentences brought it back, but she's glad they did.

"Do you think we could talk?" He asks, hesitant despite the ease of his features.

"Yeah," Emma nods. "Sure, uh, where do you want to go?"

Killian glances over her shoulder, back towards the docks. She turns to follow his gaze. There are a few boats in port along the boardwalk.

"My ship," he offers. "She's docked back there."

Emma stares at the row of boats lining the shore and considers the offer for a moment. She hasn't been on many boats in her life, a few yachts when a job called for it and that one botched kayaking trip with a foster family when she was eleven.

"Lead the way," she says, sweeping her free hand out in the direction of the dock. The corner of Killian's lips lifts into a smirk before he does just that.

He leads her down the dock and up onto the deck of his modest boat. It's possibly the most modest thing about Killian Jones and Emma figures it's only that way for strategic purposes. Most of his jobs as a retrieval specialist require breaking the law, having a ship that calls attention to you is probably the easiest way to make sure no one ever hires you again.

Regardless, when Emma pictured his boat, she'd always imagined something completely ridiculous that wouldn't look out of place on the set of a _Pirates of the Caribbean_ movie.

"So," Emma starts, her bearings returning now that she's sure this isn't some drawn out illusion or waking dream. Killian relieves her of the bag of groceries, setting it off to the side. "How did you find me?"

"I admit it took a bit of work," he says, studying the contents of the bag rather than meeting her eye. Emma would be offended, but it's all just vegetables and bread products that Ingrid asked her to pick up. "Quite a bit of research."

"Mm," Emma hums, leaning against the side of the boat. "So, you learned all my dirty secrets, did you?"

Killian turns suddenly, eyes wide as they meet hers. Emma stiffens. She'd meant it as a joke, not because she really thought he'd have had to delve that deeply into her past.

"Of course not, Swan," he insists, shaking his head. Emma still doesn't relax. "I know how I'd feel if someone did that to me. No, I just looked into your foster families, admittedly with some of Red's software. You spent the longest time with an Ingrid Fisher before she moved here. I figured it was the best chance I had."

"Lucky," Emma comments.

"Or fate," Killian corrects. Emma shoots him an unamused look and he smirks easily in return. The air around them suddenly feels much lighter and Emma realizes that had been Killian's intent.

"How long have you been here?" She asks.

"A few days," he explains. "The dockmaster is growing weary of my presence, though, as I am neither importing nor exporting anything. And, you?"

"We've been here for all of five minutes," Emma shrugs, a smirk tugging at her lips. "How could I be growing weary of your presence already?"

This time it's Killian who offers the unamused look.

"Almost two months," Emma says, answering the real question. Killian whistles, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

"That's a long time to spend in one place," he points out. It is, admittedly, especially for Emma. "Are you on a job?"

"No."

Killian grins, wide and dangerous. Emma's heartbeat picks up in a familiar way.

"Would you like to be?"


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General Disclaimers: I know astoundingly little about Greenland, art museums, and security systems. Therefore, much of this fic is definitely fantastical in nature. Think of the show Leverage but with even less research. Also, so, so little about French government. Please suspend your disbelief okay I’m so sorry <33

Technically, they all agreed to lay low for a while after George’s threats. Two months is a long time to be stagnant, though, and Emma is beginning to feel the itch. Killian dangling the prospect of a job in front of her is hard to resist.

 

“ _The Louvre_?” She asks, not bothering to hold back the disbelief in her voice. “Seriously?”

 

Killian raises an eyebrow, the smirk on his face unaffected. “It’s French.”

 

“I,” Emma starts before sighing and electing to ignore him. “It’s one of the most well secured museums in the world. How exactly are we supposed to get in?”

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, love,” Killian says, a frown replacing his ever present smirk as he scrubs his hand over his jaw. “But, aren’t you the self-proclaimed Best Thief in the world?”

 

Emma raises her eyebrows. She knows a challenge when she hears one. Unfortunately, it’s a tactic that usually works on her and this time is no different.

 

“What’s on display that’s so special, anyway?”

 

If she’s going to risk breaking into the Louvre, it needs to at least be worth it. Killian pivots, disappearing below deck and returning almost immediately with a laptop. It’s balancing on his bad arm while his fingers glide over the mousepad. He stops, turning the laptop to face Emma.

 

She just barely keeps her jaw from falling open.

 

“Are you _crazy_?” She asks, louder than she intends. Emma glances around the dock, but there’s no one else around to overhear. Regardless, she deliberately drops her voice. “The Crown of Louis XV? It’s been on display forever. You do know the jewels were all replaced by glass in the 1800s, right?”

 

“It doesn’t lessen the score,” Killian insists. “I think it’s worth the risk.”

 

“Worth the risk? For some half-rate king’s crown with almost no monetary value?” Emma questions. Anything from the Louvre can’t really be resold without trouble, but at least if the crown still had jewels it would be worth something. The only thing that makes it worth anything at the moment is it’s placard at the museum.

 

“It’s about the challenge, Swan,” Killian argues.

 

“The challenge?” Emma echoes, shaking her head and truly trying to understand. Killian huffs, setting the laptop on one of the bench seats bolted to the sides of the boat. He pushes his hand through his hair and avoids her eyes for a moment.

 

“Look, Emma,” he starts, suddenly serious. There’s a hesitation in the way he turns back towards her, the softness of his voice. “We got played for fools. We’re supposed to be the best and we acted like amateurs.”

 

“You want to break into one of the most difficult museums to break into just to prove you can,” Emma summarizes. Killian raises his eyes to hers, desperate for her to understand. She can’t exactly blame him for the thought. Most of her time spent in Greenland has been her trying not to think about what happened in New York. George had screwed them all, that was one thing, but he’d made them doubt themselves.

 

Killian’s right. They’re supposed to be the best. Now, they have to wonder if that’s still true.

 

“If you need some time to think about it, I understand,” he says eventually, fingers rubbing the skin behind his ear raw. “If you’d prefer to stay here with your foster mother…”

 

Ingrid has told Emma time and time again she’s more than welcome to stay in Greenland as long as she wants to, whether it be a few months or forever. The thought of leaving the people she’s come to know here does make her chest tighten up a bit. But, at the end of the day, can she really deny Killian or herself this? After all…

 

“I assume you have a plan for getting inside,” she says and that blinding grin returns to Killian’s face.

 

They’re the same, aren’t they?

 

-/-

 

They decide to wait a week before they leave the country. The crown isn’t going anywhere (unfortunately - Emma has always found it easier to steal something when it’s set to be moved between exhibits) and she needs time to get her things together and say her goodbyes.

 

She has a suspicion Killian is also giving her time to backout.

 

“So, what’s the real reason you’re leaving?” Anna asks. Emma is in the laundry room trying to sort through clothes from her hamper. Some of it is hers, brought with her in her hasty packing, but a lot of it is borrowed from Anna and Elsa. Anna is sitting on the dryer, her legs swinging in front of it, her heels creating a dull _thud_ every time they strike against the metal of the machine.

 

“Anna,” Elsa scolds with a frown from where she folds a stack of towels across the room.

 

“What?” Anna responds, a light shrug accompanying the false innocence in her tone. She returns her attentions to Emma. “I’m just curious! You’re a good liar, like, scary good. But, it’s pretty obvious you haven’t just picked up and decided to leave after one trip to the market. Something happened, right?”

 

Emma hesitates, her hands clasped around a sweater she’s trying to identify as her own or Elsa’s. “I, uh, I ran into someone I knew. From New York.”

 

Elsa has given up on her folding and come to join them, leaning against the dryer next to Anna. She raises one perfectly shaped brow at Emma.

 

“Are you, like, running from this person?” Anna asks, a little more hesitant this time. “Because if it’s something bad, we can help.”

 

“No, guys, it’s nothing like that,” Emma insists, shaking her head and tossing the sweater into the washer.

 

“Are you sure?” Elsa persists. The sisters share a look, the look of siblings sharing in a silent conversation, the kind that makes Emma feel suddenly left out, before turning back to her. “If they’re dangerous, you should let us help you.”

 

Emma sighs, pouring the detergent into the washer before closing the lid. It begins to rumble and she leans back against it, facing the other two women. They’re watching her expectantly, worriedly, and it pulls a chuckle from her.

 

“I promise, it’s nothing like that,” Emma assures them. “He just has something he needs my help with and we have to head back to New York for it.”

 

Almost none of that statement is true. Killian probably doesn’t need her help so much as just want it - something she’s trying not to examine - and she has no intentions of heading back to New York any time soon. It’s a nice enough lie, though, that it works.

 

Anna’s face lights up for an entirely different reason. “ _He_? So, it’s a boy?”

 

Elsa rolls her eyes, but there’s a fondness there that comes from growing up with a boy crazy sister. Which is probably a feat when you’re gay. Emma shrugs her shoulders and decides that it’s probably a good thing if they think her hurried departure is about a man anyway.

 

“Yes,” Emma says slowly, nodding. She tilts her face away, as if hiding a blush. Anna claps her hands excitedly and Elsa covers a laugh behind her hand.

 

“And what is his name?” Anna singsongs. Emma freezes for a moment, unsure about just handing out a known art thief's name in relation to herself.

 

She thinks of Killian on his boat, short hair tousled by the wind and dimples in his flushed cheeks. The image is sudden, not unexpected since they’re talking about him, but it makes Emma’s chest feel as though something within her ribcage has taken flight, soaring around in the space. Her cheeks heat with a real blush, which only serves to confuse her more, and this time she turns fully away from Elsa and Anna.

 

“Charles,” she offers eventually, the first name that comes to her head. Anna coos and Elsa’s laugh is a quiet tinkling behind her palm. Emma returns her attention to sorting through the rest of her clothes.

 

-/-

 

She decides to tell Ingrid the same story, mostly because she’s extremely doubtful of Anna’s ability to keep a secret. Emma doesn’t want Ingrid to think she’d lied because she didn’t want to be around her anymore or anything like that. Ingrid takes it in stride, a similar twinkle in her eye to the one Anna had. Emma doesn’t even mention Killian’s name this time, though, so she’s beginning to wonder if she’s telling the story differently than she means to.

 

Over the week, she meets with Killian a few times downtown, but spends most of the time packing up her things, spending time with Ingrid, and researching the crown. It’s not really necessary to know its history, but she’s not going to find anything about the Louvre’s security system online.

 

Faster than she realizes, the week passes by and Emma needs to meet Killian at the docks. Ingrid insists on coming with her to say goodbye, that she needs to head downtown to open the ice cream shop anyway. Emma says goodbye to Elsa and Anna at the house, though, promising to keep in touch and return for Anna’s wedding. They’d tried to insist on accompanying her as well, but Emma had refused. She wasn’t a kid going off to camp for the first time, she didn’t need the whole family to come and wave her off.

 

And, family, how weird of a word was that?

 

The realization makes the goodbyes hard, but saying goodbye to Ingrid at the docks is nearly impossible. Emma holds onto her tightly, reminded of the last time she’d had to say goodbye to the woman. Ingrid, gripping Emma just as tightly, must be thinking of the same thing because she says, “No decade long gap between visits this time, hm?”

 

Emma nods against her shoulder, not trusting her own voice. Her eyes burn with tears, but the cold wind whipping around them gives her an excuse. She clears her throat when she pulls away finally, swiping her wool sleeve over her eyes.

 

Ingrid grabs both of Emma’s hands, sandwiching them between her own. “I love you, Emma, you know that, don’t you?”

 

Emma can’t do anything but nod, pulling the woman into one last hug. She murmurs a goodbye against her shoulder and finally convinces herself to turn towards where Killian’s ship waits. He’s standing on the dock in front of it, watching the exchange with interest. He doesn’t bother to pretend not to be watching when Emma notices him, instead offering her a gentle smile as she heads in his direction.

 

“You alright, Swan?” He asks once she’s stopped in front of him, close enough that she can feel the warmth from his chest against her shoulder as she stares at the sea in front of her.

 

“Yeah,” she nods. “You ready to go?”

 

He sweeps an arm out towards his ship, towards the horizon, towards France.

 

“Paris awaits.”

 

-/-

 

Flying between Greenland and France would take them a little over a day, with a few connecting flights between the two countries. Taking the trip by boat is much trickier. Emma spends the majority of the time trying not to be sick and familiarizing herself with the layout of the museum. Killian takes them on an odd path that leads them between the United Kingdom and Ireland before landing them in a coastal town in France.

 

“We’re just leaving your ship?” Emma asks, raising an eyebrow as she glances back at the unaccompanied mode of transport. She and Killian each have a bag and his hand on the small of her back ushers her towards the city.

 

The boat has always been a part of Killian’s whole schtick. He can move and retrieve merchandise on his own without the need to pass hands or deal with typical customs. He flies under the radar and it allows for him to work in a timely manner. Now that she’s actually seen him on the ship, though, Emma gets it. He’s in his element on the deck, steering the boat along the coast of Northern Ireland, like he’s done it all his life.

 

He refers to the damn thing with feminine pronouns. So, needless to say, she’s a little shocked he’d just leave it at some port in France.

 

“Not to worry, love,” he assures her. “I have a friend coming to pick her up and move her to a private port until we return.”

 

“You have a friend in France willing to stow your ship?” Emma asks, disbelief coloring her words. “How?”

 

“It’s not my first rodeo,” he reminds her, offering what she’s sure is supposed to be a smug wink. It’s hampered slightly by his inability to wink properly, which only makes Emma smile in surprising fondness.

 

They take a train into Paris and check into a hotel under one of Killian’s lesser used aliases.

 

“I have certain ones I only use for travel arrangements,” he explains, a murmur into her ear as he keeps one arm wrapped around Emma’s waist to really drive home the act of being a couple. “Never can be too careful.”

 

Emma nods, ignoring the sudden heat settling through her skin at his closeness. One room with one bed is inconspicuous. No one really looks twice at the tourist couple taking a romantic holiday, especially in Paris. Emma doesn’t have as many aliases as Killian, her skillset making her blend into a crowd or a shadow more easily, so he checks them in while Emma lays the “doting lover” act on thick. She curls her fingers into the lapel of his suit - he’d made the switch from his usual leather jacket on the train - and dropping her head onto his shoulder.

 

“Your room key, Mr. Errol,” the grinning man says in perfect English, sliding a small folder across the desk towards Killian. Two gold key cards stick out from within and the silver plastic of Killian’s credit card contrasts them. Emma frowns, just a tic before she remembers herself, and snags the envelope before Killian can. The man behind the desk doesn’t seem to notice any change as he continues, “Will you be needing any help with your bags?”

 

Killian dismisses the offer and reaches down to grab his bag from where he’d placed it on the floor. The hard plastic of his prosthetic digs slightly into Emma’s hip with the movement and startles her out of where she’d been studying his bank card. She hikes her own duffle bag further up her shoulder and allows Killian to guide her towards the elevator bank.

 

She waits until they reach the room before she asks, “Flynn Errol?”

 

“Hm?” Killian hums, looking up from where he’d been bouncing slightly on the bed, testing out the mattress. “That’s a fine name, I’ll have you know.”

 

“What, was Han Solo not available?” She asks, crossing the room to drop her bag next to the bed. Killian raises an eyebrow at her, but moves his own bag to the couch on the opposite wall. It’s a nice hotel and the couch looks nearly as comfortable as the bed. Emma doesn’t feel bad exiling him there, if she’s honest.

 

“Why, Swan,” he starts once he’s draped dramatically over the couch. He’s grinning broadly at her, but it’s not the same delighted grin from the dock in Greenland. It’s smug and makes Emma turn away from him. “Are you a _nerd_?”

 

Emma huffs. “I’m gonna take a shower and then we should go sightseeing.”

 

Killian chuckles, but doesn’t disagree as she grabs her bag and takes it to the bathroom with her. She hears him call the front desk and ask for extra blankets and pillows.

 

-/-

 

Sightseeing, of course, doesn’t actually mean sightseeing. Emma changes into a long, white summer dress and calls for a cab to meet them outside the hotel. Killian divulges himself of his suit jacket and Emma thinks they could easily pass for two tourists. Just chic enough to be trying too hard as they stare starry-eyed at the Parisian sights.

 

They cross a bridge over the river Seine and Emma actually doubts it’ll be too hard to pretend to be wonderstruck by the city. It’s not that she’s never been to France before, she’s done her traveling, of course. She hasn’t had much reason to stick around Paris for very long, when she bothered to enter the city at all, let alone actually take in the typical sights.

 

It’s nice to know what everyone is always talking about.

 

Outside the museum, Emma waits until she’s out of the cab at least to stare.

 

“A beauty isn’t it, love?” Killian asks, suddenly standing close enough the words are nearly murmured into her ear. She nods.

 

“It’s huge,” she offers and he chuckles. He holds his hand out for her and she laces her fingers through his, tucking herself close to him. She notices, as they buy their tickets, he’s suddenly keeping his left arm tucked close to himself, as though suddenly self conscious.

 

Once inside, their tickets taken at the door, Emma casually switches side and loops her arm through his, pulling it from where it’s pressed tightly to his side. Killian raises an eyebrow at the movement and Emma reaches over with her other arm, linking her fingers together around his bicep. She sees some sort of softness flash in his eyes and knows it’s not for the sake of the act, his shoulders loosening as he leads her into the exhibits.

 

Emma knows exactly where the crown is located within the museum, but they stroll along the other corridors. This isn’t a snatch and grab, they need to have patience and be sure of what they’re doing. They move slowly around the building, murmuring notes about specific security details into each other's ear.

 

“Camera in each corner,” Emma breathes at one point, her chin propped up on Killian’s shoulder. He nods, nearly imperceptible, in acknowledgement.

 

“Guard rotation seems to be every ten minutes,” he comments later, his lips warm as the press against her earlobe. Emma represses a shiver, tilts her head towards him in confirmation.

 

The seemingly obvious displays of affection keep most people’s eyes off of them. Being in the open is often the easiest way to fly under the radar. They duck into a cafe inside the museum to order lattes and discuss what they’ve got so far. Killian pays with an entirely different bank card and Emma doesn’t bother to learn the name on this one.

 

A few hours later, the museum closes and Killian calls for a taxi in flawless French. Emma tries to log everything she’d learned about the museum’s security in her mind, but it’s incomplete. They don’t know what measures might go into place when the building actually closes.

 

“Dinner?” Killian asks, as they wait for their cab.

 

“I know we’re in France, but I was honestly thinking we’d just get room service at the hotel,” Emma shrugs, pressing a yawn into the back of her hand. Killian gives her one of those soft smiles. “Is that, like, blasphemy?”

 

“We’ll be here for a few more days,” he shrugs, his words colored with amusement. “I think it’s alright to order chicken fingers off a hotel menu just for the night.”

 

Their cab pulls up to the curb and Killian tugs the door open for her. Emma steps past him to slide into the cab, but stops for a moment and looks at him.

 

“Chicken fingers,” she scoffs. “Please, I’m getting grilled cheese.”

 

The door closes on the sound of Killian’s laugh.

 

-/-

 

They spend the next four days at the museum. Killian switches between different payment methods, eventually using cash exclusively. Emma pays for the taxis and Killian pays for the museum and, after they finish, Emma intends to workout paying him for half of the hotel bill.

 

“We should find records for the building,” Emma suggests one morning. The long, summer dresses are tiring her out, so she picks out tank top and a pair of jeans. They won’t need to play tourists today, anyway. “We’ve got the layout of the museum down as best we can, but we’re only guessing about the security measures at this point.”

 

“What do you suggest?” Killian responds over the sound of running water and a mouthful of toothpaste. Emma crosses the hotel room to lean on the doorjamb leading into the bathroom.

 

“We should try and get the building records,” she explains. “We’ve seen what’s open to visitors, but we need to know if there’s anything underneath or locked away. Even if it’s just the possibility of an entry point.”

 

Killian seems to consider this, swishing water between his cheeks as he stares at her. Emma raises an eyebrow at him as he drags the motion out and pivots out of the doorway, returning to sit on the bed. She hears the sound of him spitting the gargle into the sink before his head pokes through the doorway.

 

“The city probably pays for the museum,” he adds. “They might keep records of any security updates.”

 

Emma shrugs, it’s not a bad thought. If they can get their hands on the type of security system inside the museum, it’ll make coming up with a plan much easier. They know where the merchandise is, but it’s useless unless they have an entry point and an idea of the security they’ll be facing.

 

Killian grins. “Sur l'hôtel de ville.”

 

-/-

 

Killian dressed in a suit similar to the one from New York and Emma, begrudgingly, pulled a blazer on over her tank top. At City Hall, they enter separately, losing one another in the crowd of workers and tourists within the front hall. Emma hones in on a blonde woman in a pantsuit with curls similar to her own and her nose buried in a binder. She angles her path and elbow checks the woman, getting squeezed in by the crowd. Her ID badge dangles from the waist of her blazer and Emma swipes it easily. She ducks into a corner and clips the badge to her own lapel.

 

She follows the signs for the hall of records and trusts Killian will do the same, if he hasn’t already. Her French is just as good as his, but she’s worried her accent will give her away so she avoids speaking. The phone in her hands provides a distraction as she keeps her eyes turned towards it, constantly refreshing one of her decoy e-mails. The only thing that pops up is an offer for a timeshare in Monaco. She thinks Snow pulls a scam like that sometimes.

 

Outside the records room, a small brunette sits at a large round desk. Her head is ducked as she reads a book laid flat on the desk and Emma thinks she might be able to drift right past her. At the last moment, the woman looks up, as if instinctually.

 

“Bonjour,” she chirps, a bright smile on her face as darkly painted nails press down the spot in her book. Emma forces her mind to adjust to French as the woman continues. “Do you mind if I see your badge?”

 

Emma unclips it and holds it up for the woman, close enough to identify, but far enough to keep the details of the woman’s face hidden. As she scans the ID, Emma takes in the desk. There are three books piled off to the side, plus the one she was reading, and a few figurines decorate the space around her computer monitor. A nameplate reads _Belle French_ and Emma thinks Flynn Errol is suddenly a terribly realistic name.

 

“Great,” the woman - Belle - says, typing the name on the badge into her log and pressing a button that unlocks the door to the room, creating a quiet buzzing. “Let me know if there’s anything I can help you find.”

 

Emma grins and nods, happy to not actually have to speak. Killian’s accent is surprisingly well hidden when he switches between languages. His livelihood depends on it, his character work falling apart if he can’t convince a mark he is exactly who he says. Emma doesn’t usually have the same concern.

 

Inside the room, about a dozen computers sit upon desks before it branches back into paper records. It smells like old books and stale air, but the silence comforts Emma. If there’s no one else inside, she doesn’t need to play a part. The tension in her shoulders loosens.

 

They tighten again, at the sound of the door buzzing behind her. When she turns, Killian is stepping through, clipping his pilfered badge to his breast pocket. He smirks at her.

 

“Relax, Swan, it’s only me.”

 

“Let’s just find the building records, alright?” She sighs, turning back to look at the expanse of shelves. “There has to be some sort of system. You check the shelves, I’ll try to find security records in the computer.”

 

“And why do I get the task of a thousand paper cuts?” Killian questions as Emma takes a seat at one of the computers.

 

She offers him a grin. “I have dust allergies.”

 

-/-

 

Killian sneezes and falls back into the mattress. The comforter puffs up around him as he groans and Emma presses a laugh into her palm.

 

“I used to like books,” he pouts. “The libraries in Italy are a sight to behold. Now, I’ll be lucky if I ever get all the dust out of my sinuses.”

 

Emma sits on the bed next to him and strokes her fingers over his forehead consolingly, a smirk on her face as she stares down at him. “Poor thing.”

 

Killian hums, his eyes drifting shut as Emma’s fingers drag over his forehead and back through his hair. She keeps the movement up for a few moments before realizing that it’s stopped being sarcastic at some point and pulling her hand away as if it’s been burned. Killian’s eyes reopen and Emma clears her throat.

 

“Let’s discuss what we know,” she says, shoulders stiff. Killian sniffs, wipes his nose with the sleeve of his shirt and recites what they’d learned about security.

 

“Faucon security. High grade.”

 

“Motion sensors,” Emma sighs. “Heat sensors as backup. Security cameras.”

 

“Guard shift is at twenty-three hundred,” Killian adds. “That gives us about a five minute window between shifts to spoof the feed.”

 

“The crown is on the first floor, security is on the ground floor. It’d be easiest to go in from the roof, drop down the side of the building, and enter that way.”

 

Killian sniffs again and Emma figures he’s remembering the last time they’d jumped off a roof. She’s already trying to decide if her rig will hold both of them. Logically, she could get inside, deal with the heat sensors, and grab the crown by herself. Killian’s talents could be better used to give her more time by distracting security. She says as much.

 

“Aye,” he nods, his hair sticking up at odd ends where it moves against the bed. He sits up suddenly, bumping his arm against Emma’s. “You know, love, I can’t help but think-”

 

“This would be easier with Red?” Emma finishes and Killian chuckles in agreement. She sighs and frowns down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. They’re painted a frosty blue that Elsa had picked out for her. “Nah, I work better on my own.”

 

The words taste like ash even as she says them, but Killian stays quiet, his arm a comforting pressure against her side. Emma’s beginning to think they understand each other more than she’d realized.

 

-/-

 

With or without Red, they formulate a plan.

 

Emma sneaks through the roof access door during visiting hours and waits on the roof while Killian steals a guard's uniform from the employee lockers. She sets her rig up and sits at the edge of the building, watching the Parisian skyline come to life as the sun sets over the horizon. Killian murmurs glib commentary into her ear as he follows the other guards around the building for last walk through.

 

“You know, they’re going to begin to think you’re crazy if you keep talking to yourself,” Emma comments, watching lights blink into life across the Seine.

 

“I’ve been called worse things,” he hums, the sound low and rough across the earbuds. Emma grins.

 

“I bet you have.”

 

At 10:55, the sound of sirens breaks the silence settled over the museum. Emma flattens herself against the roof and searches for the flashing lights pulling up to the museum. Over the comms, she hears Killian insist he can watch the feeds while the other guards deal with it. Admittedly, Emma feels a little bad for calling in a false emergency. Technically, Killian had done it from one of the museum lines which meant there’d probably be an investigation into it. It’ll be easy for them to make the new guy who never shows up for work again the fall guy.

 

Plus, by then, the crown will be gone and it’ll give them a whole new crisis to worry about.

 

“I’ve looped the video feed for room sixty-six,” he says, the words directed at Emma now. “Motion sensors are disabled, but the heat sensors are the back up security. They’re on a set rotation to turn off during the day, I don’t know how to unlock them.”

 

“We planned for this,” Emma reminds him, tugging on her rig to double check it. She picks a cooler up off the roof and loops the strap over her chest. Security and the ambulance techs are grouped at the front of the building, bickering over whether they can come inside or not.

 

“Good luck, Swan,” Killian murmurs, almost as if Emma isn’t actually meant to hear it. She steps up to the edge of the roof on the side of the building where the crown is.

 

Emma grins, toes of her lightweight boots just reaching into the open air. “Who needs luck?”

 

And then she leaps. Her curls whip in the wind, the rig makes a satisfying sound as it moves along the cord, and she closes her eyes for a half a second. Few things in the world are better than this.

 

She clenches her fist and the rig slows before coming to a stop in front of the window leading to the first floor.

 

“Am I gonna trigger any alarms by cutting through the window?” She asks. At Killian’s assurance, she pulls a tool from her belt and cuts four clean lines, using a sticky glove to lower the cut square gently to the floor as she follows it inside. She picks her way along the walls, trying to keep track of her time. She’s got about thirty seconds before the sensor will pick up her heat signature.

 

“Swan,” Killian says in warning. She ignores him, coming to a stop beneath the sensor. Unzipping the cooler, she pulls out a brick-shaped block of tin foil, ice packed tightly within, and a roll of duct tape. Gently, she places the brick over the sensor and duct tapes it to the wall.

 

Spotting the crown, Emma smiles. “Tell me, Killian, did you ever dream of being royalty?”

 

Killian hums and Emma can just imagine the smirk on his face. “Haven’t you ever heard of a pirate king, darling?”

 

-/-

 

Emma leaves her summer dresses in the hotel room to make room for the crown in her duffle bag. She rolls it up inside of her blazer and tries not to grin smugly the entire way back to the docks. They take a cab from Paris back to the coastal town and Killian’s boat is waiting for them at the dock.

 

Killian gets them shoved off and into international waters before he liberates the audacious bit of history from her bag. Emma doesn’t bother to temper her delight as he places it gently onto her head. He wiggles his eyebrows at her, dropping into a dramatic bow.

 

“You’re a natural royal, Princess Swan,” he compliments. Emma raises an eyebrow.

 

“Queen,” she asserts, earning a surprised grin from Killian. He nods in agreement.

 

After a while, the crown sitting on a table between them, Killian leans back and tilts his head at her. Emma waits, knowing he’s gone serious, disappearing into his own mind.

 

“So, fun’s over, then,” he says quietly. Emma nods, slowly. “Where shall I drop you?”

 

Emma considers that. She did say she works better on her own. It’s always been the case, it’s how she’s survived all these years. She’s a solo thief and, while her time in Greenland was nice and the feeling of family was somewhat overwhelming in a wonderful way, she’s not ready to give that up.

 

And yet.

 

“You know, there’s this bank in England I’ve always wanted to hit,” she says.

 

“Is that so?” Killian asks, an eyebrow quirked and something like hope dancing in his eyes.

 

“Yeah, but it’s more of a two-man job.”

 

She doesn’t analyze the way her chest warms at his smile.

 

-/-

 

They go on like this. It becomes surprisingly easy, the way they work together. Normally the first few days of research and surveillance are grating and tedious, but Killian makes them fun. Emma doesn’t know if it’s _him_ , per say, or just having another person. Sometimes he leans in and makes a sarcastic comment in her ear, though, and Emma is inclined to think it’s Killian that makes it all so easy.

 

“You know, George Spencer wasn’t lying about me,” Killian starts. They’re off the shores of Barcelona, high on the victory of a well-pulled off heist. Side by side on the floor below deck, their backs pressed against the frame of the bed, they drink celebratory champagne. “But, it isn’t as simple as he made it sound.”

 

In all honesty, Emma doesn’t remember much of what George Spencer had said about them. Her own reopened wounds had distracted her pretty heartily, a fact Spencer apparently hadn’t considered when he’d attempted to turn them against each other. Still, she keeps her gaze forwards and tips her champagne flute to her lips before responding.

 

“It isn’t?” She asks.

 

“My mother passed away when I was very young,” Killian explains, shifting against the bed. Emma doesn’t know if it’s out of discomfort from the wooden bed frame or the topic. “My father was a bastard who left my brother and I not long after. My brother, Liam, he was all I had growing up. He kept us clothed and fed, kept me out of trouble.”

 

“Well, that couldn’t have been difficult,” Emma comments, her tone deceptively light. “You’re hardly the troublesome type.”

 

She glances over and the comment has pulled a smile, a sad one, from Killian. She’ll call it a win.

 

“When he was old enough, he joined the Royal Navy,” he continues, swirling the champagne around his glass as if the memories are playing in the golden liquid. “He sent his wages to me and, once I was of age, convinced me to join up as well.”

 

Emma reaches for him on instinct, her hand landing on his wrist just above the straps of his prosthetic.

 

Killian’s voice has gone thick, but he presses forward. “A few years later, my brother’s fleet was sent on a special mission. Their commanding officer didn’t join them, choosing to send them in alone. Do you know how rare it is for a captain not to accompany his shipmates?”

 

“A suicide mission,” Emma realizes, her chest aching for the man next to her, for the people she never knew.

 

“Less than half the crew came back,” he says, nodding at her. His voice is rough in a new way, now, anger and bitterness coloring the tone. “Do you know what they did to Liam’s captain? They gave him a medal. Called it the best success they could hope for. I defected, but not without causing a bit of ruckus, which they did not appreciate.”

 

Emma’s fingers tighten around his wrist unconsciously. He sets his glass on the floor and scratches behind his ear with his empty fingers.

 

“I’ve kind of been running from that ever since,” he finishes.

 

“I guess we all have shitty pasts,” Emma sighs, tilting her glass once more to her lips. There’s a fresh sum of money in her bank account, enough that splitting it with Killian barely made it seem like less, but the high is gone. She can feel his eyes on her, but he doesn’t press.

 

Someday, maybe she’ll tell him.

 

-/-

 

They’re in a hotel in Greece when she does.

 

It’s been exactly eleven years since she pressed her face into a pillow in that women’s prison to hide her tears. Eleven years since she listened to her son cry as she refused to look at him, to hold him, before they took him away. She’s tried to forget the date, can’t remember the exact date when her team had left her to the wolves, or the day she’d been released from that prison, but some things are etched into her mind.

 

Killian makes an offhand comment about the date as they’re making a plan for breaking into the museum they’ve been surveying. Emma tenses up, her fingers clenching around the edges of the copy of the blueprints they’d gotten their hands on. He continues, oblivious to her discomfort for another thirty seconds, before he notices.

 

Immediately he’s kneeling next to the desk chair she’s sitting in, his knuckles swiping over the moisture she hadn’t realized had accumulated in her eyes.

 

“Emma,” he says softly, breaking through the haze of memory clouding her senses. “Love, what’s wrong?”

 

She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, tries to remind herself she’d done the right thing. The day usually doesn’t affect her quite so immediately and heavily, but it’s been a rocky few months emotionally. Changes have been constant, along with travelling so much as she and Killian pick out targets. Not to mention the way being played by Spencer had affected her.

 

Emma knows she could push him away, insist it’s nothing, and he’d let her. It’s a dance they’re both becoming very good at. Killian is much more open than she is, Emma isn’t unaware of his feelings for her. They skirt around them, moths dancing dangerously close to a flame they dare not touch.

 

Instead, she takes a deep breath and tells him the truth.

 

-/-

 

In Italy, she kisses him for the first time.

 

They don’t even have a mark in mind, Emma had just grown weary of the constant movement of being on a boat and insisted they dock and sleep in stationary beds for a few nights. She pays in cash for a room with two beds and plush sheets and sleeps like a baby the first night.

 

The second night, they go out for authentic Italian cuisine - which Emma is learning means something entirely different in Italy than it does in New York - and return to the hotel with small bowls of shaved ice. With full stomachs, they lay sideways on Emma’s bed, their legs dangling off the side, and stare at the ceiling.

 

They’ve spent so much time in close quarters, between Killian’s ship and shared hotel rooms, that they’re used to sharing personal space by now. The heat of Killian pressed into her side barely affects her anymore. Barely.

 

“Have you ever thought about quitting?” Emma asks, breaking the companionable silence of the room. She’s not sure where the question comes from, but she continues anyway. “Just taking your money and retiring to some island?”

 

Killian shrugs, his shoulder rubbing against hers and creating a rustling where his leather jacket scrapes against hers. “I haven’t thought about it, no. But, I suppose, I could. Depending on the circumstances.”

 

“What circumstances?”

 

“Well,” he drawls and Emma can feel his eyes on the side of her face now. She takes the risk and turns her head to meet his gaze. “If you asked, for example.”

 

She’s momentarily stunned into silence. Killian isn’t smirking at her, or wiggling his eyebrows, or attempting to wink unsuccessfully. He’s just watching her, eyes a soft blue in the yellow light of the hotel room.

 

Emma finds her voice. “You’d give it all up for me?”

 

“Aye,” he confirms softly.

 

It’s not exactly news. Killian isn’t subtle about most things, but he hasn’t really bothered to be about his feelings for her. She’s never felt pressured by him to return those feelings. Rather, that he prefers to be honest about them than to pretend they don’t exist. It’s ironic considering everything else in his life is a lie, but Emma can respect it nonetheless.

 

This feels new, though. It feels like something more than him finding her attractive or liking her because they work well together. Even just considering changing your entire life at the hypothetical thought of someone asking, that’s- well, it’s stupid, for one thing. The pragmatic side of Emma’s brain thinks it’s dumb to give it all up for a relationship.

 

Regardless, something warm stirs in her chest.

 

Killian’s lips are warm when she kisses him, his beard rough against her skin and his fingers calloused as they drag across her jaw. He tastes like raspberry ice and the rum he’d had at dinner. Emma lets herself be overcome by the sensations, rolling over on top of him, her legs settled on either side of his hips. Killian leans up to meet her, fingers dragging through her hair while his prosthetic rests at her waist, steadying her.

 

“Swan,” he mumbles against her lips, pulling back just a ways. Emma frowns down at him, suddenly afraid she’d completely been misreading the situation. “You’re drunk.”

 

She scoffs. A few glasses of wine at dinner does not a drunken stupor make. She knows exactly what she’s doing, has total control of her faculties. Still, Killian’s fingers push her hair back from her face, holding it there when gravity attempts to take it once again.

 

“It was just wine,” she insists. The soft smile Killian gives her, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he stares up at her, washes away most of her fears, though. His brow pinches, though, and Emma can tell he’s trying to find the words.

 

“I just want to make sure that you don’t regret anything that might happen between us,” he explains. “It’s been quite a few months we’ve had, but perhaps you should sleep on it.”

 

Emma raises an eyebrow. “ _You’re_ advocating for patience? What, you choose now to become a gentleman?”

 

“I’m always a gentleman,” he frowns, but there’s amusement dancing in his eyes. Emma huffs and falls sideways off of him, the mattress bouncing with the movement. Killian chuckles as his hand falls away from her face.

 

Admittedly, Emma is usually the first to run as far and as fast from her feelings as possible. She considers that this might just be one of those things Killian has picked up about her. He’s trying to save himself the pain of a changed mind, the regret of doing something she comes to wish they hadn’t.

 

They don’t really talk as they take turns changing for bed. Emma goes first, pushing herself off the bed and stripping out of her leather jacket. She changes in the bathroom and, when she comes back, Killian is already stretched out on his own mattress in a thin t-shirt and dark sweats.

 

Emma leans against the wall and considers him for a moment. His right arm is draped over his eyes, the left resting on his stomach, sans prosthetic. It’s not something Emma’s never seen before, another in the list of things that come along with months of traveling together. Shaking her head, she crosses the room and tugs his hand away from his face. Killian’s eyes go wide as he looks up at her and Emma links their fingers together, tugging gently until he gives in and lets her lead him from his own bed to hers.

 

He settles in behind her on the bed, left arm bent and pillowed under head while the fingers on his right hand stroke gently at her hip.

 

“If I change my mind,” she murmurs, taking a shaky breath as his nose presses into the back of her neck. “You’ll be the first to know.”

 

He chuckles and says, “I appreciate the consideration.”

 

In the morning, she kisses him as a means of waking him up. Just so he knows where she stands.

 

-/-

 

They manage for a few weeks, drifting between an endless vacation and an endless crime spree. It’s nice, Emma thinks, because they worked well as partners before they started making out in the corners of museums and sharing plush hotel beds. Nothing really changes, other than the making out and the bed sharing. Killian doesn’t suddenly go all chauvinist protector when Emma takes a swan dive off a building with only a thin cord and faith to keep her from splattering on the pavement.

 

She keeps up a near constant e-mail stream with Ingrid, Elsa, and Anna. Kristoff had returned just after Emma had left and was apparently dying to meet her. They’d finally set a date for the following summer and made her promise to come back to Greenland for the ceremony. Leaving hadn’t made her lose that feeling of family, something Emma finds herself grateful for every time an e-mail pops up from them.

 

She feels like it’s the calm before the storm.

 

Of course, the downside to this philosophy is that always, inevitably, the storm must hit. Which is exactly when Red shows up at their hotel room.

 

They’re in Malta, mostly for a hotel room and local cuisine, but they’ve also been trying to find something worth stealing. They’ve become very good at mixing business with pleasure. Tourist activities give them the opportunity to see what is of value, but they can be draining ventures. Emma is, unnecessarily, making a pitch for hotel room pizza for dinner as they stumble through the door to their room.

 

She fails to notice that the lights are on, despite having been turned off when she left, or the distinct scent of a Manhattan in the air.

 

“Enjoying your vacation?”

 

Emma twist suddenly, nearly toppling over in surprise. Killian steadies her, but just barely judging by the way he seems ruffled as well. Red’s laugh isn’t mean, but it’s definitely mocking them as she lifts her glass to her red lips and finishes off the cocktail. The cherry topper sits, soggy and dimpled, at the bottom of the glass.

 

“Jesus, Red, what the fuck?” Emma bites, hand pressed firmly to her chest over top of where her heart beats out an erratic rhythm. The woman only laughs again, fishing the abandoned cherry from the glass. “How did you find us?”

 

“Please,” Red scoffs, uncrossing her legs and standing up from her seat on the mattress. “Like I don’t know all of your aliases. I’ve been tracking you guys for months.”

 

“Months?” Emma echoes. Red gives out a haried sigh, like they’re the ones who just showed up unannounced inside of a locked hotel room. She pulls her phone from her pocket, the case a thick rubber one that makes the phone appear to be the shape of a wolf. A few finger strokes and she twists the phone for Emma to see.

 

“Look familiar?”

 

The screen lights up with an e-mail draft. Emma frowns at it.

 

“You’re looking for a timeshare in Monaco?” Killian questions, raising an eyebrow at Red. She shakes her head, pulling the phone back and tucking it into her pocket. Emma is amazed that the giant case manages to fit in the pocket of her skinny jeans.

 

“I got that e-mail a few months ago, back in Paris,” Emma explains. Red looks surprisingly smug.

 

“One of Snow’s scams, actually,” she grins. “I just added a nice little detail that allowed me to get a track on your phone. I was surprised you didn’t have some, like, overt cache of burners, honestly. You seem the type.”

 

Emma frowns because that does not sound like a compliment. “Okay, so, what are you doing here now?”

 

“You two have become quite the world travelers,” Red comments, suddenly much more grim than she’d been before. “But, we need to go back to New York now.”

 

“For what?” Killian asks.

 

“To finish what we started.”

**Author's Note:**

> A note to readers: The Author (does talking in third person make this any better? No? Got it.) is going through some rough stuff right now. Things are about to get busy. It had been my hope that posting the start of this story before finishing it (which I almost never do) would motivate me to write the last two parts. Emotionally, I've just been having a rough go of it and my writing has gotten pushed to the back burner. My hope is to buckle down and get the next part finished by next Thursday, but if I don't, I hope you readers will understand and perhaps not give up on this story.
> 
> Thanks!


End file.
